Sanctification
by Adison
Summary: Erik has left Paris following that most fateful of nights. Settled in the English countryside, he is slowly healing with the aid of a woman who refuses to let him break. Kay, Webber and Leroux based.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

A thick, white fog swirled around the man's feet as he walked silently through the cemetery. A crescent moon shone brilliantly overheard, casting shadows from the statues and headstones lining the pathway through the graveyard. The cool mist curled around his hands, dampening them, and he absently pressed his palms to the legs of his trousers. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears; he was anxious. Cemeteries had always made him so. He could practically taste the decay that lie below his feet; the rotten bodies, the wasted lives, all beautifully masked behind magnificent monuments, stone angels, intricate headstones. He quickened his pace. A large silhouette stood before him, and he took a deep breath as he approached it.

He kneeled when he reached the tomb, and lowered the small bouquet of white roses onto the steps leading to the iron gate. He took another shuddering breath.

"Well, Monsieur Daae," he said softly. "It appears she has abandoned us both."

He straightened, gazing at the dark sky. The ship for England departed in just a few hours, and he still had much to prepare for the voyage. Returning to the opera house was a great risk, but a necessary one; perhaps he could scavenge some of his personal effects. Maybe even salvage some of his music. The vermin who had defiled his home certainly wouldn't have found all the entries and exits the lair possessed; surely he could slip in and out quickly enough to go unnoticed.

His eyes shifted back to the tomb. Anton Daae had given him two great gifts: Christine, and the means to possess her.

_Angel of music._

He snarled at the thought.

"Farewell, monsieur. May you rest easy now that your daughter is safe from this demon."

He inclined his head briefly and made the sign of the cross. Then he turned on his heel and fled into the night, disturbed mist and white roses the only evidence that he had been there at all.


	2. One

**Chapter One**

The tall, dark-haired woman tightened her grip on the small hand enclosed in hers. The boy behind her made a muffled yelp of protest.

"Mama, you're hurting me!"

"Sorry, darling," she said absently, looking around her.

"When will we get there?"

"Soon, dear." She side-stepped a pile of horse droppings on the road. Perhaps this was a mistake. She should have spent the money for a carriage ride to her destination; two hours of walking through muddy streets had gotten her nothing but ruined skirts and a very irritated son. Did she really want to work for someone who lived in so secluded an area? It was at least four miles from the neatest town. _Still, _she thought to herself silently as she lifted her skirts over a muddy patch of road, _it's quite beautiful out here._ The buds of early spring has begun opening in the trees lining the road, warm white and pink blossoms that scented the air sweetly.

"Look!" Thomas tugged on Isabel's hand, ripping her from her musings.

"What, darling?" she asked, looking down at his round face, red from the walking.

Thomas pointed up the road. Several yards ahead of them, the trees along the pathway became sparse and in the distance, a dark shape began coming into focus: a tall, vine-covered house stood majestically, silhouetted against the perfectly blue sky.

"That must be it," Isabel breathed.

"Finally," Thomas grumbled, making no effort to hide his annoyance with the whole situation.

They walked in silence as they turned onto a paved walkway leading to the front doors of the house. Isabel stood quietly, gazing at the building before her.

Ivy covered most of the front, creeping along the frame of the door and encasing windows. The whitewash was dull and graying with age and neglect. She would have thought it abandoned if she hasn't seen smoke rising from the chipped-brick chimney.

Drawing a breath, she stepped forward… and almost tripped when Thomas' hand yanked hers back. She turned her head towards him and felt her eyebrows lift with surprise. Thomas' eyes were round and fearful, his jaw hanging open.

"What is it, dearest?"

Thomas shook his head. "I can't go in there."

Isabel shut her eyes and exhaled slowly. "Why not?" Her nerves were shot as it was. She had no patience for Thomas' idiosyncratic tendencies now.

He pointed to the house, his hand shaking with fright. "There's a ghost in there."

Isabel tugged on his hand and gave him an encouraging smile. "Of course there isn't."

"There is, Mama!" he insisted. "Can't you feel it?"

Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Feel what?"

"The cold!"

"The cold?"

"It's always cold where there are ghosts!"

Isabel arranged her face in an expression of utter confusion; indeed, she could have honestly said she had no idea what her son was talking about. _Perhaps simply catering to his whims would help this ordeal pass._

Gathering her skirts, she kneeled to his level and grasped his chin gently, turning his face towards hers. "If there is a ghost in there," she said softly, "I'll make it go away as soon as I see it. I promise you. Now, we're going to go inside and talk to the man about what we discussed, do you remember?"

He nodded mutely.

She pressed a palm to his cheek. "You must be on your best behavior, do you understand?"

Thomas tore his eyes from the house and met her gaze, then nodded again.

"Good boy." She stood, smoothing her skirts, and continued up the paved pathway, Thomas trailing reluctantly behind her. Standing before the great oak doors, however, she felt her resolve begin to dissolve. The position could have already been filled; this house was far too removed from town for her liking; she could despise this man. Shaking her head as if to rub out her doubts, she leaned forward to knock on the door. It was a brief moment, a split second, really, but just before she rapped her knuckles across the wood, she could have sworn she heard music drifting through one of the windows above her.

A tense silence followed. Thomas still looked prepared to flee, clutching his mother's hand and glancing around wildly. Ignoring his odd behavior, Isabel straightened her back and displayed what she imagined to be calm determination on her face. There was no way of knowing what sort of man this Mr. Bertrand was, but appearing flighty or flustered would not do at all. Isabel shifted her weight impatiently. All was still, no sound coming from inside the house. Clearing her throat, she knocked again, beating her fist against the wood so hard, her skin stung.

"Maybe no one's there," Thomas said, a flicker of hope betraying his would-be calm tone.

"Except the ghost, of course," Isabel said, not taking her eyes off the door.

A dull thudding from within the house broke into the silence – footsteps.

Yanking Thomas to her side, Isabel lifted her chin and fixed on an unwavering smile.

One of the doors slowly creaked open.

Isabel took an involuntary step backwards.

A man stood before her, an imposing figure framed perfectly in the doorway. He was tall and lean, his posture ramrod straight and elegant. His clothing was immaculate: pressed black trousers, polished leather boots, a deep green waistcoat over a white lawn dress shirt. His dark brown hair was slicked back, revealing the soft curves of his face: the strong jaw, the cleft chin, the full lips. But it was his eyes that demanded attention; blue-green and brilliant, they stood out in sharp contrast to his deathly-pale skin; two glowing embers in a white field.

Isabel's eyes shifted and she suddenly realized what made this man so different.

So pallid was his complexion, his skin blended almost perfectly with the white mask that graced the right side of his face.

* * *

_Props to my beta, Musique et Amour (aka Stalker Erik) for being all nice and stuff. _

_Yes, horror of horrors, an E/OW story. Emit shrieks of terror as you see fit. _


	3. Two

**Chapter Two**

The three of them stood silently for a moment, staring blankly.

"Mr. Bertrand?" Isabel said pleasantly, breaking the tension.

The man looked startled at her words, his visible eyebrow raising and lips parting slightly as his gaze shifted from Isabel to Thomas, then back again. "Yes," he said quietly after what seemed like an eternity.

Isabel gave a brief curtsy. "Sir, I'm Isabel Bauer and this is my son, Thomas," she indicated the boy with a graceful hand.

The man - Mr. Bertrand, apparently - raised his eyebrow further, but didn't speak.

"I'm here about the advertisement," Isabel said, drawing a clipping from her reticule and holding it out to him. He raised a hand slowly, took the paper from her fingers and read it, his forehead suddenly furrowed, as if he was trying to remember something.

"Ah," he said softly. "Of course." His eyes met hers briefly before flickering to Thomas. He stared at the child, his face expressionless. Isabel looked down at her son, who was staring back at the man towering above him, wide-eyed.

Finally, Mr. Bertrand raised his eyes to Isabel. "You are interested in the position."

Isabel's smile wavered. "Yes, sir. Is it still available?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." He cleared his throat. "Please, come in." He stepped aside and swept his arm up in a gesture of welcome. The movement seemed almost mocking in its formality.

Isabel offered another polite smile and brushed past Mr. Bertrand, tugging Thomas along. The boy seemed to have abandoned any idea of escape and was resigned to get this over with as soon as possible.

It wasn't until she heard the door click softly behind her that Isabel took in the room she was standing in. A wide hallway stretched before her, the walls painted a dark red and mahogany trim framing doorways. A stairwell stood to her right, the worn wooden steps descending into utter darkness as the staircase rose.

Thomas gave a small whimper.

"Please, let us repair to the parlor."

Isabel spun around at the sound of the voice behind her. Mr. Bertrand was in front of the door, his lips forming a small smirk as he strode forward, beckoning Isabel to follow him.

She stepped lightly to keep up with his pace, Thomas nearly tripping over his feet behind her. Her eyes roved about the hall, desperate to seek out some hint of this man's character. She could find none; the dark walls were bare and every door she passed was shut.

The man stood at the door of a room at the end of the hall, his brow set impatiently. He indicated for Isabel to enter with a jerk of his head, and she walked in quickly, Thomas now clinging to her skirts.

The room was large, with a small table surrounded by cushioned chairs. A large sofa sat in the center of the room, faded gray and threadbare. The walls were a peach, almost flesh-colored, and the woodwork framing the doors and windows was the same mahogany as the hall.

Mr. Bertrand pulled a chair from the table and sank into it gracefully. Isabel seated herself on the sofa, pulling Thomas down next to her.

Again, the man gave a slight smirk, one corner of that curved mouth tightening and turning up.

"Well," he said, steepling his fingers and smiling that increasingly frustrating smile. "Mrs. Bauer. Tell me about yourself."

His voice was tinted with an accent, so faint it was barely discernible. His voice... beautiful and smooth, but also sad... and cold.

"What is you'd like to know, sir? That's far too broad a request for me to fulfill without running the risk of babbling."

"Indeed. Forgive me." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Tell me, Mrs. Bauer, why should I employ a woman who has a small child and an undoubtedly worried husband at home, wondering why his wife isn't there to answer his bidding?"

Isabel shifted in her seat. The vague sense of unease that had followed her into this house intensified... either this man was extremely eccentric or he simply enjoyed other's discomfort. Or both.

"My husband is a coal porter in Liverpool, sir. He understands our... needs, and does not protest my seeking employment to supplement our funds."

"And whatever would he think of his wife and child sharing a roof with a strange man? I would not wish to besmirch your honor." His cool tone dripped with sarcasm.

Isabel felt a corner of her mouth lift, despite herself. "Do no trouble yourself with worry, sir. As I said, he's perfectly aware of the situation. And I'm sure he would be pleased that I may work for a gentleman such as yourself," she added furtively.

"Indeed," Mr. Bertrand said disinterestedly. "I did not, Madame, plan on hiring a woman with a child." He shot Thomas a disdainful look. "Surely he would prove to be a great distraction from your tasks."

The boy slid closer to Isabel, clutching her hand tightly.

"Oh, Thomas is no trouble, sir. He's extremely well-behaved. You would not even know he was here. And he's very self-reliant, for one so young. I would not neglect my duties."

"I see." Mr. Bertrand leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. Still fixing a steely gaze on Thomas, he snapped at the child. "How old are you, boy?"

Thomas blanched and buried his face in his mother's side.

"Thomas, darling, Mr. Bertrand asked you a question. It's polite to answer."

Thomas made a muffled noise in reply.

"Oh, honestly." She withdrew her arm from around his small body and pushed him away from her, holding his arm tightly. "You're being silly." She smiled apologetically at Mr. Bertrand. "He's not normally like this. He's just shy around strangers."

Mr. Bertrand reclined back into the chair, folding his arms across his stomach. "I am sure."

Isabel gave Thomas a hard look. The boy swallowed and turned towards Mr. Bertrand, hanging his head. "Seven, sir."

"Seven," Mr. Bertrand repeated softly. He raised a hand to his lips, apparently lost in thought.

A moment of awkward silence passed, Thomas chewing on the inside of his cheek and Isabel casting glances around the room; again, it was bare-walled and gloomy, despite its brightly-colored paint. Dust covered the table Mr. Bertrand sat in front of, and there were several ragged holes on the sofa she and Thomas were seated on. If the rest of the house was as neglected as what she had seen so far, she – or whoever was appointed the position - had a backbreaking job ahead of her.

"Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand said, folding his hands together carefully and meeting Isabel's eyes, "I have just purchased this... shack," - he gestured around the room with distaste - "knowing fully well the state of disrepair it was in and hoping I could remedy that easily enough with some simple hired help. I can repair the structure damage myself, but the upkeep of the house will rest on you and you alone. I have much work to do that I cannot possibly ignore, but I refuse to live in filth any longer or ever again." His features hardened. "My home will be immaculate, Mrs. Bauer. I will not tolerate anything less. Your son will be kept out of my sight. My meals will be prepared and served in a timely fashion. You will not disturb me while I am working."

Isabel simply stared, kneading Thomas' fingers with hers.

A lock of hair had escaped the confines of the pomade that slicked Mr. Bertrand's dark hair back and it slid across the stark white mask, brushing his porcelain cheek lightly. The mask, Isabel noted, was formed perfectly to fit his face. It was a flawless work of art; the curve of the nose and cheekbone as smooth as flesh, the edge running along his hairline in a graceful sweep. The eye it surrounded was sunken in, that much she could tell, and the whites slightly bloodshot. _What sort of man would shroud his face so? _His visible side was uncommonly handsome, despite the dark circle under his left eye and his sallow complexion. No deformity could detract from that.

"Working, sir?"

"Yes, working," he said stiffly. "I will be honest with you, Mrs. Bauer. Not many are interested in this position. My home is too isolated, my requests too many. I understand it is an odd situation, but I am not... overly fond of people, and wish to hire as few as possible. I am sure what I'm asking of you will serve no great challenge."

Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Oh? What makes you so certain?"

He offered a grim smile. "You are raising a small child while your husband is half a country away. Compared to that, keeping a house clean cannot possibly be unmanageable."

Before Isabel could articulate an answer, Mr. Bertrand had risen and begun to stride towards the door. "The third floor will be yours for the taking. I trust you will find it comfortable. I will be expecting you here Monday morning." He paused at the door, glancing back toward her. "Do you have any concerns you would like to address?"

Isabel stood abruptly, unwittingly jerking Thomas up beside her. He made a grunting protest and rubbed his hand.

"My salary, sir. It hasn't even been discussed."

"Salary. Yes, of course." He tapped the doorframe, thinking. "It is a large task to undertake." He glanced around the room, smiling vaguely at the dust and cobwebs. "I must admit, I do not know the typical rates for such an arrangement, so I must pay you what I feel is appropriate. Say, five pounds a week?"

Isabel's knees locked and she fell back onto the sofa. Thomas, alarmed, grabbed his mother's hands and attempted to pull her upright, only to fall onto her lap when his strength failed him.

"Five pounds... _a week?_"

Mr. Bertrand looked mildly amused. "Surely that would be suitable?"

"I..." she realized she was gaping and shut her mouth, nodding her head in reply.

"Very well. Monday morning, then, Mrs. Bauer. If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Please show yourself out."

A slight bow, a quick turn of his body in the doorway, and Mr. Bertrand was gone.

Isabel looked down at her son's face, still pale and frightened.

"What happened today, Mama?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, darling."

* * *

_Less is more; I'll keep this brief. Wild applause for Musique et Amour, my friendly neighborhood (well… not really) beta, whose music I listen to while I write, and a special thanks to Mandy the O, CelticHeart and Random-Battlecry for being sweet and squeeful. _


	4. Three

**Chapter Three**

A log in the fire shifted, a shower of sparks exploding in the stone fireplace that Erik was pacing in front of. The Persian rug beneath his bare feet was worn and faded, the golden thread no longer shining against the deep red wool and silk. The windows were gray with dust and grime; he hadn't bothered to clear them. The moon shone through the dirty glass, basking the room in an eerie yellowish glow.

_Even the moonlight is disfigured in your presence._

He slumped onto a cushioned chair, rubbing the bare side of his face roughly. It had been a draining day, all in all. He glanced down at his ink-stained hands, wincing as he flexed the cramped muscles. For hours he has been writing, playing, composing, working his fingers bloody. And yet nothing came. The music he wrote now was sour. Meaningless, cold. The very sound of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't understand it. Even before... _her_, he had his music. It appeared to him, sliding effortlessly into his mind from his soul and out of his fingertips. There were moments in _Don Juan Triumphant_, he knew, that were beyond the description man could give. Moments that could only be felt. It was music you could breathe, that you could touch. It could make you laugh with love or weep with beauty.

He ran a hand through his hair violently, ignoring the stabs of pain along his scalp. Throughout his entire life, his abominable childhood, Persia, Paris, _that girl_, throughout it all, he had had his music. Now he was being denied even that.

_Good god, _he thought, a bitter, twisted smile taking his lips, _did you take that from me as well, Christine?_

He was failing.

His music was eluding him, teasing him from great heights. He would often forget to eat, staying in the room he locked out of habit, bent over the piano until he would feel his strength gradually leave him. He wasn't sleeping. Every night was worse than the one before: twisting in his sheets, turning his body over so many times, his skin was raw from the friction of the blankets.

He was becoming thin with the exhaustion he couldn't seem to slake. He hadn't felt so weak in years, so utterly unable to cope with whatever was thrown at him. The feeling of helplessness was a bitter pill to swallow.

And there was the matter of his new home. Loathe as he was to admit it, the house he had bought in haste was in much need of repair. The roof leaked in several places, the cellar was a virtual swamp, and there was a draft in almost every room. And that wasn't even touching the aesthetic problems: the siding was peeling and weathered, carpets were stained, windows were cracked. After ten weeks of living in this house, he was ready to curl up within himself in disgust. This was no better than living in the cold, wet cellar of an opera house. This was no different. He had been gone too long, he realized. Too many years spent alone, brooding in darkness, away from prying eyes and sunlight. Perhaps that was what had driven him to the madness. That solitude he had cloaked himself in as protection had worked too well and had buried itself into him, a comforting loneliness that followed him everywhere.

He was still sane enough to recognize that he wouldn't be able to survive on his own for much longer at this rate.

The woman, Isabel, had seemed adequate to suit his needs. She was polite and concise, every bit a respectable Englishwoman. She seemed prepared to take on the somewhat unusual position of being the lone servant in a house with only one master. Her skills were of little interest to him. She was willing and she was there, and that was really all that mattered. The child had been a surprise, but the lack of any applicants made refusing this woman a very foolish idea indeed. The house was over four miles from the nearest village, and while this particular fact was part of the reason he had bought the property, he knew it may pose a problem to anyone he hired. If Isabel was to take care of the entire household, she would most likely require a horse and cart. Which meant he would have to build a stable. He sighed. Perhaps the physical labor would be a positive change of pace. The simplicity of the chores - changing the glass of a window, residing the house - would be a comfort; methodical projects that would allow him to let his mind wander while accomplishing what needed to be done.

The third floor he had promised her was in need of a good airing-out. While he wasn't particularly concerned with making a good impression, the rooms in the uppermost level of the house were full of mildew and mold, and it would not do to have his only servant fall ill. The child may have an unhealthy reaction, as well, and the last thing he needed was a grieving mother for a maid.

_The child._

The boy had been stark-white with fear from the moment they had laid eyes on each other. Yet, during the course of the brief interview in the parlor, Erik had felt the boy scrutinizing him, studying him even through his obvious fear. He had clung to his mother and acted as frightened children do, gazing wide-eyed and silently. The woman had shown no visible reaction to him at all, aside from a slight eyebrow quirk upon the initial meeting. Perhaps she was in need of work so badly, she didn't notice anything abnormal.

_Desperation blinds all, _he thought.

* * *

Isabel snapped the lock on the trunk, sighing softly as she wiped her brow with a handkerchief. Thomas was in the other room of the apartment, carefully selecting which items he would take with him to their new home. The previous night, she had patiently explained why they needed to leave some things behind, even the things they would rather not part with. He had listened silently until her speech about doing without was over. Mr. Bertrand, she said, was not likely to be lenient about children's toys being strewn about his house. Thomas has smiled shyly at the gentle chide at his messy habits, then asked quietly if he could keep the cloth rabbit that Grandmother had made him.

"Yes," she had said, surprised by his lack of argument.

"And the straw hat Papa brought me from London?"

"If you wish, yes."

"Then I'll be fine." And he had bid her goodnight and gone to bed.

She couldn't suppress the swell of pride that grew in her chest. Her son was becoming a mature, level-headed man very quickly. She would have to remember to tell Daniel in her next letter.

_Daniel._

She paused. Her husband had written a week ago, encouraging her to meet with the man who had placed the advertisement, looking for a housekeeper. It made sense; she had been a maid at Weatherby Park for almost ten years and certainly knew enough about keeping a house clean. _Go,_ he had written. _It can__'__t hurt to try. You know about this work. Don__'__t think too much, just jump in and do it. _

What she hadn't expected was Mr. Bertrand. In her mind's eye, he was a cordial old gentleman, perhaps a widower, with a fondness for hunting and several pointers milling about his feet. She would make him his meals, dust the house a bit and tend to her son. They would have a roof over their heads and money enough for any provision they may need, and that was really all that she was concerned with.

But Mr. Bertrand was not, in fact, a kindly old man with dogs trying to trip him. He was a tall, dark presence, with a coldness surrounding him that was almost visible. He couldn't have been ten years older than she, yet he had the world-weary look of an old man. He was not well, of that she was certain. He had the thin appearance of many she had known who had taken to drink, nursing bottles of cheap gin at all hours, becoming skeletal and ill from lack of nourishment. She would have to take it upon herself to make sure he didn't fall into that particular fate; drunks were never reliable employers, and she didn't want Thomas exposed to it on a daily basis.

Then, of course, there was the mask. For the salary he was paying her, she was willing to accept it without question. She knew that, as time passed, her curiosity would be torturing her, but for now, the idea of five pounds a week was enough to keep her interest at bay.

_Five pounds a week._ She smiled to herself. It was more than she could have imagined earning. Daniel would be pleased, no doubt. Her head hung slightly at the thought of him. It had been far too long since she'd seen his face, heard his voice. Sometimes, when she lay in bed, if she was slipping into sleep slowly enough, she could almost feel his body next to hers.

Her head snapped up at the sound of Thomas' voice.

"Mama, I can't find my storybook! I can't leave without it!"

Isabel wrung her hands and turned, walking calmly into the next room to help her son.

"I found it!" he said, beaming as he held the worn book up. "I put under my bed so I wouldn't lose it." He turned back to his case, trying to fit the book in at an angle. "Do you think Mr. Bertrand has lots of books, Mama?"

"I would imagine so, dear. He seems the type."

"I hope he does. Maybe he'll let me borrow some. I hope they aren't boring books, about history or something. I can't bear boring books. Why would you write a boring book if you could help it?" And he prattled on absently, shoving more items into his case.

Isabel couldn't help but smile.

* * *

_As always, biscuits and tea for Musique et Amour, my personal grammar slave and an all-around nice guy. _  



	5. Four

**Chapter Four**

"Ow!"

Isabel jerked awake as the carriage came to a violent, shaky stop. Thomas was rubbing the side of his head – he had collided with the wall when the cab had halted so abruptly. Kneeling before him, Isabel gently cradled his cheek in her palm and tilted her head, examining him for injuries.

"Are you alright, Tom?"

Thomas nodded mutely, still massaging his temple.

Isabel opened the door and stuck her head out. "What on _earth_ is going on?"

The driver appeared, ruddy-faced and apparently flustered. "Wheel got caught in a rut, ma'am. Broke the axel."

Isabel groaned and pulled back inside the cab. "Well, we'll just have to get there on foot, then."

"With our bags?" Thomas said incredulously, his hand dropping from his bruised forehead to the soft velvet of the carriage's seat.

"Yes, dear. With our bags."

"But it's miles yet!"

"No more than two. Come, now. We'll take plenty of rests."

They stepped out of the carriage and Isabel paid the driver while Thomas gazed woefully at the small collection of luggage on the roof of the cab.

"Are you sure, ma'am? That trunk you've got's not too heavy, but it's a long ways for a lady and a young one to carry. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

She lifted herself onto the carriages' step and hoisted the trunk down, shaking her head at him. The driver looked alarmed. "I'll get that for you, ma'am!"

She plunked it gently on the ground, placing her hands on her hips. "I can manage, sir. Thank you." She motioned at her son. "Thomas, come take one end of this, please."

Grumbling, he picked up his small case in one hand and grabbed one handle of his mother's trunk in the other. Isabel gripped the strap of her satchel and picked up her end of the trunk. The driver stared after them, not bothering to shut his gaping mouth.

The house looked no more welcoming the second time she approached it. The late-afternoon sun shone through the trees, casting ominous shadows on the dull-white sides of the building. Thomas set his case down, setting his weight on it heavily and panting. Isabel seated herself on her trunk and held her arms out. "Come here, darling."

Glancing unhappily at the house, the boy walked to his mother and pulled himself onto her lap, leaning his head against her shoulder.

Isabel wrapped her arms around Thomas tightly and rested her temple on his forehead.

"Are we going to stay here forever?" Thomas murmured.

She shut her eyes. "I don't know, dearest. Probably not forever." She kissed his forehead and stood, gently sliding him off her knee. "Mr. Bertrand is a kind, respectable gentleman, and we're going to enjoy every day here. I promise."

She could tell from the skeptical look on his face he didn't believe her anymore than she believed herself.

Thomas' gaze suddenly set behind her and his eyes grew round, a familiar expression of silent fear taking his features. She spun on her heel, nearly tripping on the gravel beneath her feet, and looked up into the cold, masked face of Mr. Bertrand.

"I believe I said Monday _morning_, Mrs. Bauer."

Isabel took a step back. His arms were folded over each other, back erect, looking vaguely irritated. She grabbed a fistful of skirt and twisted it nervously. "Our carriage had an accident, sir. We've walked the last two miles." She glanced at Thomas. "We're quite tired."

Mr. Bertrand's expression remained cool and disinterested. "I see. I shall have to remember to nominate you for martyrdom."

Isabel narrowed her eyes and released the folds of her skirt. "I wasn't asking for pity, sir." She turned back to her luggage and bent to lift her satchel. "Thomas, dear, the trunk, please."

Thomas gave a groan and heaved himself off the crate. "Yes, mother." He lifted one side and gave a wince. He dropped it immediately and looked at his hands: large blisters were forming, angry red patches assaulting the soft skin of his palms.

Isabel started at the sight. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Mama."

"When we get inside, I'll treat them straight away."

Mr. Bertrand made an impatient noise and strode forward, brushing past Isabel and bending over the trunk. Lifting it easily, he walked towards the door silently, his footsteps leaving clouds of dust in the road. He disappeared into the doorway.

Isabel picked up her satchel and Thomas' case and began towards the door, beckoning him to follow. He stayed close to her, as before, and paused before crossing the threshold.

"Still think there's a ghost, dear?"

Thomas nodded furiously. "I _know_ there is, Mama."

She felt herself smiling. "I'll ask Mr. Bertrand about it later." She topped in the hallway and looked around. "Where is he?"

"Mrs. Bauer."

She looked to her right and saw Mr. Bertrand standing in the stairwell, still grasping her trunk. "Please follow me." He continued up the stairs without waiting for a reply.

Annoyance stabbed at Isabel as she watched his retreating back. "Such rudeness," she muttered, gathering her skirts and walking up the steps.

The stairway was steep, and she had to keep the railing gripped firmly as she made her way up. She could hear Thomas' pained grunts as he climbed behind her, his hands surely protesting anymore use today. She panted slightly as she reached the second floor. Glancing around, she noted that it was the same as the first; bare walls and worn carpets, not a stick of furniture anywhere to be seen.

"Mrs. Bauer," came Mr. Bertrand's smooth voice. "This way."

She followed the sound, Thomas still behind her, and crossed the hall quickly. Mr. Bertrand stood in the doorway of another staircase. "The third floor," he said quietly, walking up the steps and setting the trunk down in the small hallway. "Divide the rooms as you see fit. I have left the windows open for a few days, so the smell should be bearable." He started down the steps again, ignoring Thomas' faint yelp as he was brushed past. "I will be in my study on the second floor. Kindly do not disturb me until six-thirty, when you will bring me my dinner." He turned briefly and looked directly at Isabel. "If there is anything you need, I am quite sure you will be able to figure it out on your own." He swept down the stairs and shut the door behind him.

Isabel set the bags down and looked around the third floor solemnly. Two large walls stood to her right, separated by a slim corridor. She walked forward and stepped into it cautiously. A window sat in the wall at the end of the hallway, aged lace curtains fluttering against the spring breeze. Bright beams of sunlight broke through the thin material and lit the small space warmly. The two walls flanking her were wallpapered a dull gray and a pair of doors were on either wall. She opened the nearest, ignoring Thomas' nervous cough behind her, and stepped inside. A plain room, to say the least; dark green wallpaper with faded yellow flowers, the dark mahogany trim, one small window with cracked glass. She turned back into the hall, leaving the door open. Thomas was already opening all the doors and peering inside; apparently his curiosity had won over any fears he may have carried into the house. She glanced into each room she passed, all dimly-lit and dark-walled.

"Mama!"

Isabel tore her eyes from a crack in the ceiling to look in the direction her son's voice was coming from. "Yes?"

"Come look!"

She walked across the hall and into the farthest room on the left. It was brighter than the others, a light blue, and the window was slightly larger and undamaged. Thomas stood in front of it, pressing his forehead into the glass and smiling.

"What is it?"

He pointed out the window. "Look at the lake, Mama. And the trees are beginning to grow flowers."

"Cherry trees," Isabel said softly. She placed a hand on the pane on the window, savoring the coolness of the glass against her palm.

"You could make pies," Thomas said cheerfully – the first time Isabel had heard him speak in such a tone while in this house.

"Perhaps, if Mr. Bertrand permits it."

Thomas sighed. "Is he very strict, Mama?"

Still gazing at the lake through the glass, Isabel slowly shook her head. "I don't know, darling."

"A strict as Papa?"

"I'm sure he's stricter than Papa, Thomas. Papa is not the strictest of men." She resisted the urge to scoff at her understatement

Thomas rested his chin in his palms. "May this be my room?"

Isabel turned her head and gazed down at her son. His light brown hair was getting a touch shaggy, locks curling around his heart-shaped face. He had his father's aquiline nose and full mouth, which was threatening to display a pout. He looked utterly endearing.

"Yes, Tom. This can be your room." She glanced at the sunlight streaming in through the window. "I'll take the one directly across the hall." She turned and began walking out the room, unfastening her traveling cloak, stopping at the doorway and looking back.

Thomas was sitting by the window, arms folded over the sill. The sun was shining on his face and for one moment, Isabel could have sworn she was looking at her husband.

Se felt herself grow cold at the thought.


	6. Five

**Chapter Five**

The kitchen was a true horror to behold.

Pots and pans were stacked precariously on the counters, dishes and silverware piled carelessly around a large washing basin on a small table next to a cupboard. An open sack of flour sat in the corner of the room, its contents spilling onto the floor. Canisters of rice and beans stood on the mantel of the fireplace, the only items in the room that looked tidy, untouched even.

Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

Isabel watched a single ant crawl from the washing basin and scurry across the table.

"This isn't nice," Thomas said wisely, running a finger along a windowsill and examining the clean streak he had made on the wood. "Why is it so _dirty?_"

Isabel chewed her lip, looking around the room helplessly. "Is the rest of the house in this state?"

Thomas gave an indifferent shrug and continued exploring the kitchen, his hands firmly behind his back. "What are you going to make for supper?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, dear." She grabbed her skirts and twisted the material around her fingers, a nervous childhood gesture she was never able to shake. A familiar sense of panic was setting in her chest, a heavy feeling of dread and uselessness that was almost suffocating. This house was a lost cause. Though she had just met him, she felt safe in saying the same for Mr. Bertrand. She was alone in the world, save for a small child and a husband, many miles away and carrying on perfectly well without her.

_Oh, failure and pity. _How she hated herself at times.

She leaned against the wall, still tugging at her skirts with one hand. Rubbing her shut eyes gently, she willed her pulse to stop pounding in her ears.

"Mama?" Thomas said curiously.

Isabel opened her eyes.

Thomas was standing on his top-toes and his head had disappeared into a cabinet above him.

"Yes, Tom?"

He withdrew from the cupboard, holding a small bag. "He has currants."

"Wonderful," she said dryly. "I can make poached currants."

"I would eat them, Mama."

Isabel dropped her head to one shoulder and lifted a corner of her mouth, gazing at her son. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

"Yes," Thomas answered, peering into the cupboard once more.

"Mr. and Mrs. Northing used to bring dozens of guests back to Weatherby Park all the time. They never gave us any notice, but we could always make a king's feast in a matter of hours." She raised a finger to her lips, tapping them gently. Thomas was ignoring her now, she could tell. He was picking more bags and sacks out of the cabinet and setting them on the counter, apparently taking inventory of the kitchen. "And this is just one man. Just one man. He's strange and unfriendly, but he hired me to clean his house and make his food, and I'll be hanged if I can't perform these simple tasks without making myself faint." She thumped her arms to her side and straightened her back, lifting her chin defiantly.

Thomas made a noncommittal noise, looking into a canvas sack with distaste.

"I'll just boil us some currants, then."

"Mama, you should look here."

Isabel walked over to her son and picked up one of the bags he had laid on the counter. Untying the string knotted around the opening, she held it up to the light streaming through the window and looked inside. "Figs?"

Thomas nodded. "There are lots of spices in here, too, Mama." He pointed to a small pile of glass bottles with smudged labels. Salt, pepper, nutmeg, basil. Rooting through the other bags, she found more dried fruit along with nuts, canned vegetables and loaves of stale bread. The other cabinets were also stocked, to her surprise. Potatoes, cheese, dried beef. One cupboard was entirely full of liquor – brandy, whiskey, a few bottles of ale. She sighed at the sight.

Shutting the cupboard door, she turned, hands on her hips, and glanced around the kitchen quickly.

"How about a mincemeat pie, then, Tom?"

Thomas grinned. "That sounds good."

She strode across the room and began selecting various bags from the counter. Try as she might, she couldn't resist the pleased smile that took her mouth. _Time to begin.

* * *

_  
Balancing the tray on her knee, Isabel gave the door in front of her an awkward knock. Mr. Bertrand hadn't bothered with a tour of the house, and she had spent the past ten minutes carrying his supper from room to room around the house, looking for his study. She heard a muffled creak from inside the room and straightened her back, moving her hand back to the tray. The door swung open and Mr. Bertrand was suddenly before her, irritation etched on the visible side of his face. He was a far cry from the elegant, prim man of two hours ago. His hair was spilling into his face, his usual waistcoat gone and his dress shirt partially untucked. Black streaks – ink, it looked like – ran across his left cheek. The mask, however, was as it always was: hugging the right side of his face as if he'd been born with it.

She stood quietly, waiting to be addressed. Mr. Bertrand simply stared at her, the lines in his face deepening with what she could only assume was annoyance.

"Yes?" he finally snapped, still holding the doorknob.

Isabel glanced at the white knuckles gripping the handle and raised an eyebrow. _Bit intense, this one._

"Your supper, sir. As requested."

Mr. Bertrand made an impatient noise and grabbed the tray from Isabel, setting it on a table just inside the room. "Thank you," he said, making to shut the door.

Isabel cleared her throat and he stopped, staring at her with mild surprise.

"It's mincemeat pie, sir. And I made a pot of tea. Something I found in the cupboard."

"Very well," he said, beginning to close the door again.

"Is that all you'll be needing tonight, sir?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Just leave the tray outside your door and I'll take care of it."

"See that you do."

Isabel craned her neck to peek into the room before the door slammed in her face. Brief as her glance was, she could distinctly make out a large piano surrounded by what appeared to be crumpled paper on the floor.

She turned slowly and headed for the stairs, musing to herself. What sort of work, exactly, was Mr. Bertrand involved with? This house, though in need of repair, was large, and despite its distance from town, it was unlikely that it came cheap. She assumed much of the land surrounding the house was Mr. Bertrands', as well, which only increased the cost. The fact that he could afford to pay her five pounds a week was enough to alert her that he was very well-off, but she simply couldn't see what sort of business could be conducted in the middle of the country. Many well-to-do gentlemen owned homes and land far outside of the towns and cities; they were retreats, havens from the hustle and bustle of London. Parties were held there, a full household staff employed at all times. Then the guests left and the master and mistress of the home would go back to town, back to civilization, and the staff would go back to their normal lives of endless cycles of cleaning and cooking. Perhaps Mr. Bertrand did business in London. But he had never mentioned owning another home in town. _Of course,_ she thought with a tone of amusement, _he hasn't mentioned much of anything at all._

She started down the stairs slowly, grasping the handrail. The narrow, steep steps creaked menacingly when she gingerly put her weight on them, and she grimaced at the sound. On the third step, she stopped. Turning her head back towards the second floor, she held her breath and listened. Music. A piano, undoubtedly the one she had seen in his study, was playing softly. A melancholy melody, filling the air with a sad sweetness. Isabel turned her whole body on the stairway and sat on the step, resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes.

The music played on for several minutes. Palpable sorrow and longing were wound into those notes, a sense of mournful regret tainting the ethereal sound that invaded Isabel's senses. She wasn't just hearing this music; she was living it, breathing it in. Bitter memories were playing in her mind as she sat there, absorbing this beautiful sadness. Every argument, every disappointment, every moment of hate and pain and betrayal were displayed before her very eyes as she listened. It hurt, this music. It hurt, but she didn't want it to end.

But it did.

She snapped her eyes open. There was nothing but silence coming from the second floor. She stood, going down the steps as quietly as she could. Just before she reached the first floor, she heard a strangled cry from upstairs, followed by a loud crash. She paused, considering if she should go back up, when she heard a door being flung open furiously. Footsteps thundered above her and another door slammed shut, so violently she almost jumped.

She rushed back to the kitchen and leaned heavily on a counter, trying to stop her body from shaking.

"Mama?"

Isabel let out a sharp cry and spun around, looking into the questioning face of her son.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, holding a hand to her heart. "You frightened me!"

"Are you alright, Mama? You look strange."

"I'm perfectly fine, dear. Did you eat your dinner?"

"Yes."

"Good. Why don't you go around the yards and explore for a bit while I clean up?"

"Can I go upstairs?"

"No," she said quickly, her hand slipping to her stomach. "No, you shouldn't go upstairs by yourself."

"Why not?" Thomas asked suspiciously.

"Because you don't know what's up there," she said harshly. "We're not familiar with this house and I'm not comfortable with you gallivanting around it without supervision."

"But we were already up there earlier—"

"Tom, I said no!"

Thomas gazed at his mother, surprise and confusion written on his face.

"Please," Isabel said softly, rubbing her eyes. "Please, Tom, don't go up there alone. Not yet."

"Alright, Mama." He gave her one more bemused look and walked out of the kitchen.

She slid down the counter and held her forehead in her hands. How could something as simple as music make her see parts of her past she had buried in the back of her mind? Memories… bitter, angry memories, most of them. How could music do that?

Passing a hand over her face, she thought about the tundra of emotions that ran through her while he played. The hopelessness, the sense of lost love, the quiet anger. Feelings she didn't even know she possessed.

_What sort of man are you?_

_

* * *

You know who's cool? My beta. Seriously. He's European. Come on, that's just dandy right there. And thanks to Le Chat Noir for her thoughtful reviews and the pomade.  
_


	7. Six

**Chapter Six**

_Daniel,_

_Our first night here is underway. Thomas is fast asleep; the poor dear was simply exhausted from watching me work all afternoon. And work I did. _

_I suddenly know why Mr. Bertrand is being so generous with my salary. This house is an utter disaster. It took me two hours to make any difference at all in the kitchen, and it was one of the tidier rooms. The library is in complete disarray- what looks like a thousand books shoved onto shelves in no order whatsoever. There's very little furniture in the house, from what I've seen, and it's all ancient and ill-cared for. The beds Thomas and I were provided with emitted such dust clouds when sat on, we both had to open a window to clear our lungs. I've only worked on the first floor so far, and even that isn't done. The parlor, where the interview was conducted, is still in dire need of a good cleaning. The cobwebs alone are enough to turn my stomach._

_The servant's quarters are on the third floor. It reminded me of __Weatherby__Park__ a bit too much; many flights of stairs to climb when you were already weary. Our new home consists of four rooms and one long hall, all dark and damp. I've let Thomas have the nicest room for his own. It has a beautiful view of the gardens, and he deserves some pleasant scenery after spending most of his life in town. _

_Whoever designed this house deserves to be thrown into the Bastille. It's dreary and cold, as welcoming and cheery as a tomb. Mr. Bertrand hasn't done much to improve the atmosphere; for a man of such apparent wealth, he certainly doesn't seem interested in spending any money on furnishing his home. Even the rooms that aren't completely bare – our rooms have beds and chests of drawers, the library and parlor have some tables and chairs – seem empty, almost lonely, as if they're devoid of any touch of life whatsoever. _

_I'm dubious of the second floor; if it's anything like the first, my hands will be bleeding before nightfall. I hate to even consider it, but I may have to ask Thomas for help. He spent most of the evening in the library, nearly struck dumb in wonder at the sheer volume of books to be had. I believe he would have ripped pages from their bindings in excitement if I hadn't reminded him that Mr. Bertrand's belongings are not ours to intrude upon, and if he'd like to borrow a book, he would have to ask permission. That certainly quieted his enthusiasm. He's quite terrified of Mr. Bertrand, you see. He's an odd sort, Mr. Bertrand. (Oh, dear. I don't even know his first name, do I?) Very imposing, to say the least. I can see how he would intimidate a small boy, particularly one of Thomas' character. I love the boy more than life itself, but he's not the bravest of creatures. _

_I shall have to go to town tomorrow, if I hope to get this letter to you in a timely fashion. I need to go to the market, as well. I'm afraid I used most of the edible provisions for dinner tonight, and I don't know how impressed the master of the house would be if I failed to provide him with a meal after my first day. Not that he'd notice; I went to collect his tray after dinner and I found it on the floor outside his room, completely untouched. I'm trying to not be offended. _

_It's__ late now, and I do not want to dwell on what a horrific day I may have to face tomorrow. I have to ask Mr. Bertrand is he expects me to organize his shamefully jumbled library; a question I am, frankly, terrified to hear answered._

_I hope you are well. Thomas sends his love._

_Sincerely,_

_Isabel

* * *

_  
Grunting, Erik lifted the heavy wooden plank onto the makeshift sawhorse he had assembled out of large, overturned steel buckets. The garden shed, a large building that he hadn't bothered to set foot in until this night, was overflowing with long-neglected tools and equipment. Several wooden boards, aged but sturdy, rested against one wall. Though it wasn't enough to complete the stable, he had sufficient supplies to make a satisfactory start.

He raised the saw he held to the weak lantern light, feeling a stab of annoyance at the rust on the blade. He had always loathed working with inferior tools, even as a child. His perfectionist nature and stubborn refusal to make do with anything less than his idea of adequate had earned him many snide remarks and poison glances over the years. Remembering the frustration of working side-by-side with inept builders, he felt grateful for his current solitude.

Setting the blade to the wood in front of him, he began the rhythmic motion, relaxing as he cut deeper into the plank. _Yes_, this was what he needed. The fruits of this labor were laid in front of him, taking shape before his very eyes. It was part of the reason why he loved architecture: the progress was more visible than music, the completion of a project celebrated with calloused hands and aching bones, pains much more satisfying than the cramped fingers and sore hands composing produced.

Running a thumb along the edge of the wood, Erik made a noise of surprised approval at the smooth cut the old saw had made. Lifting another long plank onto the buckets, he began again, slowly slicing through the wood until he heard the tell-tale crack and watched the two pieces fall to the ground.

Marking off another plank with a lead pencil, he found himself smiling at the unexpected pleasure he was feeling. The stable was a small job – not even worth mentioning, compared to the palaces in Persia – but the task was having the desired effect: his muscles were loosening, the tension beginning to evaporate from his body, the raging in his mind falling into a peaceful silence. The cool, crisp air was delicious, sweet and fragrant with the cherry blossoms and budding flowers. He wasn't one to entertain such a ridiculous sentiment normally… sweet-smelling air and the simple beauty of blossoms unfurling from their winter sleep, but the moonlight was settled on the tops of the cherry trees, basking them in a white glow, and a gentle breeze brushed the hair from his forehead, cooling his skin. Placing the saw next to the cut planks, he looked around him and realized, for the first time in all the weeks he had lived there, what an exquisite home he had.

_"You know my weakness for beautiful things."_

Erik paused, the memory startling him. He had known many experiences in Persia – the seduction of opium, the khanum with her twisted lust and petty wrath, the indulged and shortsighted shah – and he had accepted, forgiven and forgotten almost all of them… but the daroga of Mazenderan and his son stood out in his mind like a bright beacon amidst the dark.

_Reza._

Erik grabbed the saw and began his work once more, suddenly desperate to distract himself from these thoughts. So absorbed was he in his efforts, he failed to notice the light shining from the third floor window above him, the silhouette of a woman gazing down.

* * *

Isabel squinted, peering down through the glass pane in front of her. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, Mr. Bertrand was sawing a plank of wood next to the garden shed three stories below her window. There was no clock in her room, but it was surely past midnight by now. She had been slipping her letter to Daniel into an envelope when she heard a loud _thud_ from outside. Alarmed, she had flown to the window and stifled a surprised gasp at the sight below her: irritable, quiet Mr. Bertrand was bent over a wooden board propped up on buckets, apparently cutting it in half. 

She's had her suspicions before now, but this capped it: her new employer was a very strange man.

She was about to return to her letter when Mr. Bertrand dropped the saw he was holding and made a distinct hiss of pain, though, as usual, it sounded more annoyed than anything else. Pausing at the window, she watched him examine his hand for injury and briefly considered going to aid him. She quickly dismissed the idea, suppressing a giggle as she imagined his reaction to her interference.

"Now, Mrs. Bauer," she said in her silkiest voice, placing her hands on her hips, "I do believe I asked that you do not assist me while I perform my bizarre midnight rituals."

She let out a chortle and straightened her back, folding her arms delicately.

"Mrs. Bauer, I merely _request_ the meals, I do not eat them. It is a common trait among gentlemen of my status. I find that consuming any food at all may sate me and therefore destroy my surly nature."

Laughing now, she held one hand to her stomach and wiped her eyes with the other.

"If you search through my revolting cabinets enough, I do believe you will find –"

"You really should learn to shut your door in the evening, Mrs. Bauer."

Isabel spun around.

Mr. Bertrand stood at her doorway, his eyes narrowed and one hand curled tightly around his bleeding palm.

* * *

_I decided to try my hand at cliffies. Meh.  
Mad love to the beta, Le Chat Noir, or Chatastic, as she's known on this here fanfiction website.  
The reviews have been wonderful and lovely and they fill my heart with warmth and gooeyness. I adore you._


	8. Seven

**Chapter Seven**

The first thing Isabel noticed was the way the light from the candle on her dresser danced on the mask. The hollows and curves of his face were shadowed and deep, making his face look gaunt.

When her gaze shifted to his eyes, she knew she was blushing. The intense heat was creeping up her face slowly, denying her any veil of dignity. Dropping her hands to her sides, she twisted her skirt miserably. Head cast down, she felt like a schoolgirl awaiting a scolding.

"Have you, perchance, seen any rags in these rooms during the course of the day?"

Isabel lifted her head and stared at the man in front of her with unrestrained bewilderment. Mr. Bertrand stood erect, his expression perfectly mild. He was the very picture of polite elegance, in spite of his mussed, soiled clothes and the blood dripping from his hand. She opened her mouth soundlessly and he raised his eyebrow, looking infinitely patient.

"I'm sorry?" Isabel said hoarsely, daring to hope for a moment that perhaps he hasn't seen her performance.

"Rags," he repeated quietly, still clutching his bleeding hand. "I was quite sure I saw some on this floor earlier in the week."

Dropping her skirt from her fingers, she laid a hand on her stomach, silently willing the churning sickness settled there to cease.

"Ah, yes," she said, quickly spinning around and striding across the room to her window. She snatched a damp cut of cloth off the sill. "I used them to wipe off the furniture earlier. It was terribly dusty up here." She folded the rag carefully, keeping her back to him. Taking a deep breath, she lowered her eyes to the ground and turned, her hands shaking.

Mr. Bertrand had crossed the room silently and now stood inches from her, his imposing height suddenly frighteningly obvious. She jerked her head up and took a step back, the backs of her legs pressing against the footboard of the bed.

Mr. Bertrand observed her for a moment, his dark eyes roving over her figure openly. A streak of indignation ran through Isabel and she straightened herself, raising her arm and holding the rag out to him. He glanced at it briefly, tilting his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Then his eyes were suddenly locked on hers and very slowly, he reached out his uninjured hand and grasped the cloth, his fingers brushing her skin. She pulled back at the contact, leaning harder against the footboard. She felt a coolness spreading down her arm at the impression his cold, damp skin had left on her.

He wrapped the rag around his hand and turned, walking across the room in complete silence. Isabel watched him awkwardly, searching for something to say to break this tension.

"Are you alright, sir?" came out sounding natural enough, though she bit her lip harshly after she said it. The air was still for a moment. Mr. Bertrand raised his bleeding hand and waved it slightly, silently answering her question. Isabel felt her face flush again. "Would you like me to have a look at it, sir?" she asked gently.

"No," Mr. Bertrand snapped, drawing his hand back and tightening the cloth around it securely. "I thank you for the generous offer, Madame, but I am perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds."

Madame. _French, _she thought. Of course. That was the accent she heard so faintly.

Desperate for some sort of clarification of what this entire interaction was about, she thought for a moment, trying to concoct a conversation to draw him into. She cleared her throat delicately. "Are you building something, sir?"

His expression was one of an exasperated adult explaining something to a particularly simple child. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer. I am building something."

She blinked. He stared.

"Anything especially, sir?"

"A stable."

"A stable, sir?"

"You must thrive on inane questions, Mrs. Bauer," he said, his tone cool. "You certainly ask enough of them."

"I... I'm sorry, sir."

"But yes, a stable." He paused. "For horses?" he added wearily, as if willing her to understand this simple concept.

"Oh. I didn't know you had any."

"I don't."

"Ah," she said politely, silently accepting her confusion.

Mr. Bertrand shot her a look of mild disgust and stepped towards the door once more. "I apologize for bothering you, Mrs. Bauer. There are no rag scraps among my possessions and I did not wish to stain the good linen of my handkerchief with blood."

"There are cleaner ones here, sir. Perhaps using one of them would be a better idea."

He waved the suggestion off. "I doubt anything here is clean. The former owners of this estate left many items here: tools, books, dinnerware." He glanced at his bandaged hand. "Scraps of cloth, apparently. And everything is filthy, as I'm sure you've noticed. The house has been abandoned for nearly three years, I am told." He trailed off, muttering bitterly. Isabel folded her hands, wearing her most patient expression.

"Yes, sir."

"You have made it quite plain that you have little or no respect for me, Mrs. Bauer. Do not act as if you do. Kindly cease the increasingly irritating habit of adding "sir" to the end of every sentence."

Her face warmed again. "Yes, sir."

His eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bertrand."

He made a small _tut_ of annoyance and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. "Goodnight, Mrs. Bauer."

"Goodnight, Mr. Bertrand." She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead and clenched her eyes shut.

"Oh, and Mrs. Bauer?"

She dropped her hands to her side and looked up.

"I really did mean it about the door." Mr. Bertrand gave a very slight smirk. "You never know what manner of creature may be lurking about." He bowed briefly and shut the door.

Sinking to the floor, Isabel numbly wondered if it was at all possible to die of embarrassment.

* * *

Hitching her satchel higher onto her shoulder, Isabel glanced around the crowded marketplace. Thomas lagged behind her, pulling a small, rusted wooden wagon he had found sitting in the yard. The wheels were creaking, groaning against the heavy weight of the purchases Isabel had made so far. 

"Just to the tailors', darling," she said soothingly, pausing to smooth his damp hair off his forehead. "Then we can go back."

"It's hot," he observed glumly, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve.

"I know, Tom. We'll just get you a new pair of trousers ordered and we'll be on our way."

He grumbled incoherently in reply.

"Tom, they're almost up to your knees as it is."

"I don't mind."

"It will only take a few minutes," she sighed, pulling the shop's door open and ushering him inside. The wagon squeaked on the freshly-polished floor of the small shop and a short, mousy man looked up from behind the counter. His mouth twitched when he eyed the wagon leaving a faint trail of dirt behind it, but when his eyes moved to Isabel, he smiled widely and hurried out to greet her.

"'Ello, Miss! How can I be of service today?"

Isabel smiled politely and placed a hand on Thomas' shoulder. "My son could do with a new pair of trousers, sir."

"Ah! Yes, yes, I can see that." The man placed a finger to his chin as he leaned down to scrutinize Thomas' pant leg. "Just got a bolt of lovely wool in. That should do nicely." He turned and ran to the counter again, ducking behind it and snatching a small wooden stool off the floor. Trotting over to Thomas, he set it next to him and picked the boy up, dropping him onto it carelessly and snapping a measuring tape off his shoulders. "Just stand still, my boy," he said cheerfully, ignoring Thomas' offended look. "This won't take but a moment."

Isabel turned to hide her amused smile and wandered over to the side of the shop. Several velvet-and-silk gowns were hanging on racks, formal dresses that were of little necessity this far removed from a city. She lifted a dress off the rack and examined it closely. The material was obviously not new -- the purple of the silk trimming the neckline and wrists was dull with age, the black velvet of the skirt crushed in places, but it was still beautiful. More beautiful than anything she had ever owned. She put it back carefully, running her fingers down the sleeve. Stifling a sigh, she turned back to Thomas, who was balancing himself on the stool admirably. The tailor was holding the tape in his teeth and marking down measurements into a small book in his hand. Looking up at Isabel, he gave another exuberant grin and waved merrily. "All done here, Miss! They'll be ready within the week." He tucked the book into his pocket and nudged Thomas off the stool. "Would be done sooner, of course, but it's the busy season. Everyone's getting prepared for summer." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his chest swelling. "The best of all the seasons, say I!"

Thomas scrambled to his mother's side and grabbed her hand, looking at her with barely concealed disgruntlement.

"Indeed, sir."

"Timothy Sanders, ma'am! At your service!" He gave a very low bow, shuddering slightly as he bent, and Isabel wondered briefly if he was going to fall over.

"Isabel Bauer."

"A pleasure, Ma'am, a true pleasure!" He extended his hand and she shook it gently, marveling at his enthusiasm.

"Yes, Mr. Sanders. It is indeed." She put an arm around Thomas and gave a sweet smile. "I'll be back in a few days to collect the trousers."

"Of course! Have a lovely day, ma'am!" He reached out and tapped Thomas' forehead. "And you as well, young sir! A lovely day!"

Still smiling, Isabel edged Thomas towards the door and grabbing the handle of the wagon, yanking it outside.

"Mama!" Thomas gasped, pulling her along roughly. "He was too happy!"

Isabel laughed. "What do you mean? What's wrong with being happy?"

"He kept hitting me with his measuring tape and smiling!"

"Your lack of welts leads me to believe he was gentle, despite the beating."

"He kept poking my ribs! He said I have little chicken ankles!"

"I'm sure he meant it kindly." Isabel rolled her shoulders to loosen the knots that were forming. "Do you want to go back now?"

The house was still too foreign and unwelcoming to call "home". The thought saddened her.

Thomas nodded and gentled his tugging on her hand. Silently, they began the walk back to Mr. Bertrand's house, the wagon creaking behind them.

* * *

The house came into view as the sun reached the highest point in the sky, its rays beating onto Isabel's shoulders and face mercilessly. Dabbing her forehead with her threadbare cloak, she stumbled down the road and onto the house's walkway weakly, Thomas dropping the wagon's handle and seating himself on the front steps, panting.

"There," Isabel said brightly, leaning against the house heavily, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Thomas glared at her.

"At least we had the wagon," she muttered, wiping her brow.

A soft tapping noise drew her attention away from Thomas' indignant expression and she moved to the edge of the house, listening intently.

"Do you hear that?"

"No," Thomas said grumpily, folding his arms.

Turning the corner, she wandered towards the gardens, the sound getting louder. Stopping near the orchard, she drew a breath sharply.

A small building was standing next to the orchard. Nearing it, Isabel felt her mouth open, struck with awe.

Mr. Bertrand emerged from the other side of the building, holding a hammer and a small bucket of nails.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bauer." He passed her and bent next to the opening of the building, a large hole placed in the center of the wall. "How was your trip to the market?"

"Very well," Isabel said absently, staring at the structure. "Mr. Bertrand, was this here yesterday?"

"No," he replied, carefully placing the hammer aside the bucket of nails and straightening. "It's just the basic frame of the stable. I began construction this morning."

She shifted her eyes from the building to the man. "You built this in one morning?"

"Of course not. I made all the preparations last night. That is normally what takes the longest in such a simple structure. I haven't the materials to complete building it yet, but they should be easy enough to acquire."

She tilted her head and peered at the gaping opening he was next to. "What's that?"

"The door will be installed here." His eyes flicked up to the roofline. "I will need to purchase some items from a metal shop to construct the door I wish to use…" He raised a finger to his chin thoughtfully, still gazing at the roof.

Isabel drew near the building and placed a hand on the pale wood. She noticed a large red mark next to her, and she traced a finger over it. "What's this?"

"Blood," Mr. Bertrand grunted. "The damnable wound on my hand refused to stop bleeding for hours."

She turned to him. "You worked with your injured hand?"

He glanced at her. "Yes."

Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from the smooth wood and stepped back, shielding her eyes from the sun. "I'm very impressed, Mr. Bertrand. It's a beautiful building."

He cast her a look of amusement. "They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mrs. Bauer, but I find that most people are blind."

* * *

_Re: The Beta. Chatastic, the coolest cat around.  
The reviews are so wonderful and helpful and I can't express my gratitude enough. You're too kind. You're too gorgeous. You're all too much. Thank you._


	9. Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Isabel pressed her fists firmly into the dough she was kneading, barely containing a grunt.

Thomas sat on the kitchen floor, tracing his hand on scrap paper he had found on the third floor. The small room that was connected to his, he told his mother, was full of useful items that had been abandoned: pots of ink, reams of paper, trunks full of missives and business correspondence, all aged and worn. A large bundle of lead pencils held together with a twine, and Thomas was overjoyed at the prospect of endless doodling and drawing. She insisted he ask Mr. Bertrand before he began destroying perfectly good paper, but she relented at the look of pure terror her son gave her.

"Darling," she had said softly, sinking down to be level with him, "what is about him that scares you so?"

"He never smiles," Thomas said simply, neatly folding his hands in front of him.

Isabel hadn't been able to think of a reply. The fact was, she later realized, she didn't blame Thomas in the least for his fear. She wasn't particularly frightened of her strange employer herself, but she certainly viewed him with a wariness that she was quite sure wouldn't soon be diminished. She remembered the noises she had heard upstairs after that all-consuming music had suddenly ceased, the loud, angry clamor of slamming doors and breaking glass. Heat rose in her face at the thought of the previous night.

_Certainly made an impression, at least._

Both of them had, if she wanted to be honest about it. She with her mocking performance, he with his intoxicating music and eccentric nocturnal habits.

Giving the dough a final pound, Isabel dropped it into a bowl and covered it with a towel. She would bake the loaf later in the day, after she had worked in the library for a while. She grimaced at the thought. After asking Mr. Bertrand if Thomas could use the items he had found on the third floor, she had inquired as to what she was supposed to do in the library.

"Clean it," Mr. Bertrand had replied, not looking up from the sketch he was working on.

"All of it?"

He glanced at her and she noticed a fine line of sweat running from his hairline, slipping under the mask. His hand rose quickly, wiping his brow and brushing his damp hair back. He straightened his back and looked at her squarely. His piercing gaze startled her, and she averted her eyes, staring hard at the stable behind him.

"Mrs. Bauer, I hired you on the presumption that you would be able-bodied enough to determine what needed to be done within the household quite on your own. Do you honestly feel the need to ask me before you begin a project as simple as cleaning a room full of books?"

She had left without a word, silently fuming at herself for bothering to ask him anything at all.

Now she remembered the thoughts that had run through her head when she saw him standing before her, cradling his bloodied hand. _"I am perfectly capable of tending to my own wounds." _How many times had she offered aid to Thomas as he struggled with something, close to tears with frustration, only to be dismissed with the words, "No, Mama, I can do it myself"?

_Why, Mr. Bertrand, your defiance echoes that of a small boy. _She suppressed a grin.

"Mama?"

Snapping her head up, she saw Thomas still seated on the floor, paper strewn about him.

"Yes?"

"Did Mr. Bertrand say I could use all the paper?"

"He didn't specify a particular amount to be used, so yes, I think it's safe to say you can have all of it."

Thomas gave a delighted smile.

"You should thank him, Tom."

The smile vanished.

Isabel released a long-suffering sigh. "Really, Tom, I know he isn't the most personable of beings, but he isn't going to chop you up and make a stew out of you."

Thomas crossed his arms and slumped his shoulders, a sour look settling on his face.

"And even if he did," she added thoughtfully, leaning against the counter, "chances are, he wouldn't eat it." She shot a peevish glance at the untouched tray from breakfast. In a friendly gesture, an attempt to form something of a peaceful, calm atmosphere, she had prepared fruit crépes for breakfast, canned berries and cream arranged over the delicate pastries. Of course, she had no idea if he had any taste for crépes, but at least she was making an effort to appeal to the traditions of his native country. And she had been repaid with another uneaten meal.

_Really,_ she thought, moving to the tray and picking at the crepes disinterestedly, _if this is his usual habit, it's a wonder he's still alive._ She glanced out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand knotting thick rope together, wrapping it around itself and creating what appeared to be a feeding-net. _For the horses_, she imagined. _The ones that he doesn't own_.

Not even bothering to try to understand, Isabel turned back to her son. He was staring at the floor, his fingers twisting in his lap. She sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, looking at Thomas quizzically. "What's the matter, dearest?"

"Can I write him a letter instead?"

"Who? Mr. Bertrand?"

He nodded, eyes still lowered.

"Instead? Instead of thanking him in person? No, dear, you should go out there right now and thank him."

Thomas slumped forward and rested his cheeks in his palms, his elbows on his knees. "But he said, Mama. He said he never wanted to see me."

"When did he say that?"

"The first day we came here. When he asked me how old I was."

"Oh." Isabel slid her legs out in front of her, wincing slightly as her knee gave a small _pop_ at being straightened. "Well, I'm sure he would be pleased if you took the time to thank him. Just go out and get it over with."

Thomas drew his knees to his chest and shook his head. "No."

Isabel's brow arched in surprise. "Thomas David Bauer, you'll do as you're told."

"But, Mama--"

"No, Tom. Just go do it." She rose slowly, turning back to the abandoned breakfast tray. "Darling," she said gently, scrapping the food into a slop bucket, "you can't be afraid of someone for no reason. Now, Mr. Bertrand has always been kind to us--" She paused at the flicker of guilt she felt for bending the truth. Dropping her head to her hands, she pressed lightly on her shut eyes, arranging her thoughts. "And anyway, it won't do for you to run from him every time he approaches. We have to get used to each other now."

She turned and faced him, crossing her arms defiantly. "We need to make the best of this. He gave you a gift, and you should show your appreciation."

Thomas sat still, rocking himself back and forth.

"Did you hear me, Tom?"

"Yes, Mama," came his barely audible reply. He looked utterly defeated.

"Up you go."

He rose slowly and walked towards the door in the corner of the kitchen that led to the backyard. She watched him out the window, saw him shut the door quietly behind him and approach Mr. Bertrand, his movements stiff, his shoulders hunched. He looked even younger than he was, hesitantly moving towards the object of his fear, his head hung as if he was marching towards the front of a firing squad.

Mr. Bertrand looked up from his sketches and eyed the boy impassively. She saw Thomas' mouth move slightly, most likely an incoherent mumble of a "Thank you", but Mr. Bertrand appeared to understand. He stared at the boy blankly for a moment, then nodded curtly, said something Isabel couldn't make out, and waved Thomas away, returning to his sketch. Thomas turned and fled back into the house, panting.

"It's inspiring, Tom, how you manage to survive such a perilous feat."

Thomas glared. "I did it."

"I'm very proud of you. What did he say?"

"That if I considered it a privilege to ruin old reams of paper, I must lead a very dull existence indeed."

"As I said," Isabel sighed, wiping her hands on her skirts and walking towards the doorway to the hall, "he's always been kind to us."

* * *

Selecting a book off the shelf at random, Isabel flicked through the worn pages, skimming the contents. It appeared to be a compilation of old scientific essays, most of which didn't hold her interest enough to examine thoroughly. She glanced at the shelf. Many of the other titles suggested they were in a similar vein -- _The Origin of Species, Experiments on the Generation of Insects_. Sliding the dusty volume back onto the shelf, she looked around and chewed her lip absently. The room itself wasn't hopeless: the small table and overstuffed chairs were in need of a good cleaning, but the books were all on their shelves, albeit in minimal order and covered in dust and grime. Mr. Bertrand obviously did not use this room; the volumes and furniture must have been left by the former owners.

Taking a survey of the shelves, Isabel noticed, with relief, that the books were sorted by subject, though carelessly, as if they had simply been shoved into place and forgotten. She raised a finger to her lips thoughtfully, contemplating the best way to go about making the room presentable.

"What's this, Mama?"

She turned. Thomas stood next to her, holding a small book.

"What, darling?"

He pointed to a page and held it out to her. She took it, smoothing the page gently.

_O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed,_

_Thou makest my heart_

_A bloody mark_

_With piercing shot to bleed._

_Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot amiss,_

_For fear too keen_

_Thy arrows been,_

_And this the heart where my beloved is._

_Too fair that fortune were, nor never I_

_Shall be so blest,_

_Among the rest,_

_That Love shall seize on her by sympathy._

_Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,_

_This doth remain_

_To cease my pain,_

_I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot._

She stared at the words, absorbing their meaning.

"Mama?"

"It's a poem, dearest. It's a book of poetry." She shut the small volume and handed it back to him, turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Darling, get me one of the rags we brought from the kitchen." She raised her eyes to the top shelves that were towering above her, giving a slight groan. Thomas didn't reply.

"Tom?"

"Mama, listen to this: _The world's light shine: shine as it will --_"

"Thomas, put that book down and help me now." She strode across the room and snatched up a rag, returning to the shelf and eyeing it wearily. "Now, get another rag and do what I do." She pulled a book from its place and gently wiped the dust off the top and cover, surprised at the difference it made. The dark red cloth almost shone now, the words _Modern Scientific Discoveries_ gleaming on the cover. She smiled. A small hint of satisfaction pricked her, a feeling she had almost forgotten. Years had passed since she had done anything she was truly proud of, and she felt suddenly pathetic at the effect wiping off a dirty book had had on her. Pushing her momentary flutter of pride aside, she slipped the book back into place and watched Thomas carefully dab at a copy of _Scientific Advancements of the 19th Century_. He blew on the damp cover to dry it, and held it out for inspection. She nodded her approval and he beamed, putting the book back and selecting another.

Watching Thomas, Isabel felt another surge of pride. There were times when she wished that her husband could be there with them, that they could be more of a family. She knew Daniel deserved to watch Thomas grow, to see his smile and the excitement he expressed over the simplest things - a bedroom with a beautiful view, a meal he enjoyed, a book of poetry - and the way his eyes would light up when he laughed. But Daniel was by the ocean, many miles away, and she knew that wasn't going to change soon. If she dwelled on it, she knew she would only begin to miss the feel of arms around her, the comfort of being taken care of. Shaking herself from her reverie, she grabbed a book off the shelf and wiped, ignoring the faint stinging behind her eyes.

* * *

Isabel glanced at Thomas out of the corner of her eye, amused to see him twitching slightly in his sleep. He was curled up on the sofa in the parlor, the book of poetry open on his leg. She set her mending aside and leaned forward, brushing his hair back. She picked the book up and flipped through it, resting back on the sofa and drawing her knees up. Love poems. _Of course._ Why a seven-year-old boy was interested in love poems eluded her, but he was quite absorbed in them, and she knew he needed to find comfort in something within this house.

"Mrs. Bauer."

She nearly dropped the book in surprise. Mr. Bertrand stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking tired. Even the mask seemed to sag in weariness.

"Mr. Bertrand. Good evening." She made to get up.

He brought a hand out from behind his back and waved impatiently. "Do not trouble yourself. I simply came to bid you goodnight."

She paused her movements. "Oh. Goodnight, sir."

"I took the liberty of taking a small tour of the library." A corner of his mouth lifted. "It has improved greatly."

"There is still much more to do. It was quite..." she trailed off, suddenly wary of offending him.

"Disgusting?"

Isabel smiled. "Well, yes. It's a shame that all those books were simply abandoned."

Mr. Bertrand indicated the volume in her hands with a nod. "I see you have made use of at least one of them."

"Oh!" She laid the book onto her lap and fought a flush threatening to climb her face. "Forgive me; Thomas was reading it earlier, and I forgot to ask if he could borrow it."

Mr. Bertrand sighed. "Mrs. Bauer, I am not a warden, and you are not a prisoner. Perhaps it would be better if I simply gave you free reign of the house."

"Oh, no, of course not--"

"No, it would be for the best." His mouth curved in a smirk. "I do not appreciate being bothered for trivial matters. I would have been quite displeased if you had interrupted my work to request permission to borrow..." he tilted his head, reading the cover of the book. "_Selected Poems of Passion._" He raised an eyebrow, looking amused.

Isabel looked at the cover. "Oh, dear. I hadn't noticed the title."

"Indeed. As I was saying, I am not ignorant of the fact that this is now your home as well, and in order for you to perform your duties satisfactorily, you will need to be comfortable in it. That being said, you may take anything you need from any room in the house. Including, of course, reams of ancient paper and books of scandalous poetry."

It took Isabel a moment to realize she was staring. "Why, thank you, sir."

"Mrs. Bauer, I do believe we discussed that unfortunate word before."

"Of course. My apologies, Mr. Bertrand."

"The only room I ask you remain out of is my study."

Isabel waited for an explanation. Realizing he wasn't going to give one, she nodded. "Certainly."

"I am glad to have that all cleared up." He gave a brief bow and turned. Isabel's heart sank when she saw what was clutched behind his back: a large decanter of brandy, the same she had seen in the kitchen cabinet the previous day. _Of course.__ He could not achieve a civil demeanor without such assistance._ Anger suddenly flared up in her. He wouldn't eat the food she prepared at his request, but he would poison himself without a thought?

"Have you any preference for breakfast tomorrow, _sir?_" She asked hotly, enunciating the word he seemed to loathe.

He turned to face her. "No, Mrs. Bauer. I hold the same opinion on most dishes." Another amused look crossed his face. "As I am sure you have noticed."

Refusing to be embarrassed or intimidated by a man tainted with drink, Isabel rose to her feet. "Very well, sir. Good evening."

He gave another bow. "Good evening." He began to leave again.

Snap decisions had never been Isabel's strong suit; they normally led to awkward situations and humiliation. Yet she had never felt this brave before Mr. Bertrand, and she didn't know if this sudden daring impulse would ever resurface.

"Mr. Bertrand?"

Slumping his shoulders wearily, he turned back to her. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer?"

"What..." she swallowed, licking her dry lips and folding her hands in front of her. "What is your first name? Perhaps you'll think me silly to ask, but... I find I believe I should know." She twisted her skirt, mentally cursing her childish habit.

Mr. Bertrand looked at her, examining her face for signs of sincerity. Even if he was influenced by whatever he had consumed during the evening, she was fairly certain that he could tell she was being bolder than usual. His eyes flicked to the door he was about to exit, then landed back on Isabel.

"Erik," he said simply. He turned and walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.

* * *

_Uber-props to Chat for her betaing and general awesomeness.  
"The Sad Shepherd's Passion of Love", by George Peele, appears without any sort of permission or consent whatsoever, seeing as the author died in 1596.  
One line of Richard Crashaw's "But Men Loved Darkness Rather Than Light" also used shamelessly.  
The reviews have, again, warmed my heart and made me all fluttery and happy. You people make my day better. _


	10. Nine

**Chapter Nine**

_Bella,_

_Springs storms are raging over the sea. The air is saltier than usual; I can't scrub the smell out of my skin, no matter how hard I try. Robert says I'm beginning to remind him of a salted fish, but I'm fairly certain he was trying to be amusing. He says hello, as always, and inquires after the health and well-being of his favorite sister-in-law and nephew. _

_To be frank, the house sounds like a wreck. In all honesty, I'm rather glad I'm here instead of there. Though I don't doubt you'll be displeased to hear it, unloading coal is preferable to cleaning up rich master's messes. But perhaps my opinion is incorrect… after all, I never was very good at my job at Weatherby. Mr. Northing would forever be reprimanding me in some way, making me feel like no more than a lazy child. Ah, well. The past is the past. I've moved onto better things. At least now I'm by the sea._

_I trust both you and Thomas are well. I miss you both very much; I hardly remember what you look like, and I'm sure Thomas has changed immensely. I know I mention it in every letter, but the fact never changes. One regret of being here is not watching my own son grow. _

_Enough dwelling. I do hope, for your sake, that Mr. Bertrand's disposition has improved some. He seems a daunting fellow, very difficult to get along with, you know. Perhaps he's simply shy around strangers. Everyone handles this type of situation differently… you, for example, are quick and friendly and witty, impressing everyone you meet to no end, whereas I mumble and trip and am generally a ridiculous person who embarrasses the company he keeps. But you knew that already._

_Is Thomas adapting? Do let me know if Mr. Bertrand continues to frighten him. I would hate to know that the boy is running away from the master of the house every time they meet; call me vain, but it would be rather embarrassing on our behalf to have a child so easily scared by a tall man. Perhaps I should write Tom a letter detailing how I would personally handle the situation. On the other hand, he may not appreciate knowing that you're passing this type of information onto me. I was proud at his age; on more than one occasion I preferred to fail at a project rather than ask for help. It's a silly trait, but one I'm sure he will grow out of, given time._

_I've got to be at the docks at sunrise tomorrow, so I'll end this here. Take care of yourself and of Tom, Bella. Write soon._

_Yours,_

_Daniel

* * *

_

Two days after she had started work on the library, Isabel stood in the center of the room, surveying it with no small sense of pride. The bookcases gleamed, reflecting the sunlight pouring in from the freshly-scrubbed windows. The books, now in alphabetical order and arranged according to subject, stood in straight lines on the shelves. She and Thomas had worked together on the volumes, trading off cleaning the covers and putting the books in order. The whole process took a day at the most. The number of books in the library proved less than she had estimated: six-hundred and forty-five, rather than a thousand, on every subject she could think of. Travel, royalty, linguistics, nature, novels, poetry, music. The organization was a bit clumsy – to cut corners, she mixed nature and science into one category, as well as art and music – but it was significantly easier to navigate through than the previous jumble of papers it had been before. Once again, she was grateful to have Thomas. He was proving to be indispensable. Normally, she wasn't one to request help from her son, but she was prepared to make an exception until the house got to be in a more manageable state.

She looked around the room once more and smiled to herself. The overstuffed chairs were still dusty and smelling of mildew, but she was in no mood to move them outside to air right now. The chairs were oak and terribly heavy; she certainly couldn't lift one on her own, and Thomas wasn't bound to be any help. Satisfied, she turned and walked out the door, making her way to the stairs and trod down, gripping the railing tightly. She entered the kitchen still smiling, closing her eyes briefly as she stepped into a stream of sunlight, basking in its glowing warmth. For the first time in months, she felt truly content.

A loud crash resounded from outside.

Shielding her eyes against the sun, she peered out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand standing next to a plank of wood that appeared to have fallen off the side of the stable. He was staying perfectly still, the index finger of his injured hand stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Not bothering to consider the situation, she went to the door and opened it, stumbling outside into the sunlight. She rushed to the stable and Mr. Bertrand turned his head towards her, his pensive expression never wavering.

"Mrs. Bauer?"

"Are you alright?" She stopped the "sir" waiting to come out at the end of the question and bit her tongue, wishing she didn't feel so awkward.

His focus moved back to the stable in front of him. "I am very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"I heard a loud noise from out here," she said, ignoring his inquiry. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't caused yourself further injury."

A ghost of a smile graced his lips, even as his eyes remained on the building. "I assure you, Madame, I am perfectly fine." His gaze flicked to her. "Though your concern is touching."

Annoyed at his sarcastic tone, mild as it was, she crossed her arms, glaring at the building. "May I be so bold as to inquire as to what the noise—"

"A board was crooked, Mrs. Bauer. I simply removed it. I am afraid it made quite a racket upon being disconnected." His foot absently tapped the plank of wood next to it. "The ground is more uneven than I originally thought, and the frame is a touch off-center. Foolish of me to allow such an oversight to occur." He dropped his hand. "Perhaps cobblestone floors would have been a better idea. I did not consider them until now… every country stable I have seen in this area has dirt floors…" he continued staring at the building quizzically, as if expecting it to answer him with its opinion.

"I see." Isabel folded her hands in front of her. "When do you expect it to be finished?"

His head snapped around and he looked at her blankly for a moment. "Finished? Oh." He raised his uninjured hand and lightly rubbed the bandage on his palm, giving a visible wince as he did so.

"Is your hand—"

"The stable should be complete within a few days," he said, ignoring her. "I am pleased you asked, as a matter of fact." He turned to the pile of tools beside him and knelt to the ground, his knee resting in the damp grass. His head turned away from her, apparently searching for something on the ground.

Isabel took this moment of distraction to study him. He still looked tired – _he must be_, she mused. _Working on this ridiculous stable at all hours, never taking any nourishment._ She sighed slightly. He had accepted a pot of tea into his room the previous evening and Isabel found the tea tray outside his door that morning, its contents empty. At least he was drinking something now. She savored the small victory.

He shifted his weight, raising his knee so he was now squatting, rooting through a stack of papers that had lain next to the tools. She glanced at him again.

The mask stared back at her.

Isabel had never had the curiosity other women did… even as a small girl, she was never particularly interested in other people's affairs, no matter how scandalous. Acquaintances of her parents simply thought she lacked the avid imagination required to spread gossip. She was dull, the poor child. Possibly a bit slow. Despite the assumptions, Isabel had kept to herself quietly throughout her life and rarely meddled in the lives of others. But this mask was beginning to draw something out of her, an intense desire to know what this dark man was hiding. Intellectually, of course, she knew that she would never see what was behind that cold porcelain. She also knew that, if faced with the choice, she most likely wouldn't want to. She suspected a part of her tugging interest was the knowledge that it would never be sated. And of course, she knew that if he went to such lengths to cover his face, it must be a horror indeed. She was honest enough to admit to herself that the idea of seeing his unusually handsome face marred in some way was not an attractive one, and she enjoyed the sight of him too much for it to be wavered in any way.

_Enjoy the sight of him?_

She mentally slapped herself.

Mr. Bertrand rose and turned, holding out several sheets of paper to her. She took them carefully, glancing at the untidy scrawl written on them. "What's this?"

"A list. Items I need from the metal shop." He straightened his back, placing his hands on his hips and stretching slightly. "I presume there is a blacksmith in town?"

"Yes, I believe I saw one."

"If you would be so kind as to collect the requested items, I would be much obliged."

"Certainly, Mr. Bertrand." She looked over the list, trying to decipher the measurements and metallic jargon in his illegible handwriting.

"Today, if possible."

She looked up at his patient expression. "Today? Right now?"

He glanced at the sky. "You have several hours of daylight left, Mrs. Bauer. Plenty of time to make a quick run to town."

She let her hand fall to her side. "Mr. Bertrand, with all due respect, I do not think it's really possible to quickly run into a town that's four miles away."

Mr. Bertrand's lips turned up in a small smile. "I would be much obliged," he repeated.

She folded the papers up delicately and slipped them into the pocket of her apron. "Of course. I'll leave immediately." She spun around and hurried towards the door to the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Bertrand staring after her. Though she didn't dare turn to look, she could have sworn he was still wearing that smile.

* * *

The blacksmith's forehead was furrowed over the paper, trying to decode Mr. Bertrand's messy writing. 

Isabel wrung her skirt nervously. "Do you do this sort of thing?"

The old man looked up, smiling widely. "'Course, ma'am," he said in a thick Scottish accent. "If it's done wi' metal, we ca' do it withou' a problem."

Isabel smiled politely. "Wonderful." She paused, glancing at the papers again. "Can you make out what it says?"

He turned a sheet to its side and tilted his head. "Havin' a wee bit o' trouble, to be honest wi' you, ma'am. But I'm sure we ca' figure it ou'." He tapped the paper lightly. "Looks like the master needs himself some hinges and the like." He raised his eyes to Isabel. "What's he doin', then?"

"Building a stable. I think." She rested against the wall of the small building, relaxing her aching muscles. She felt at ease in this town; it was full of other working folk, and there was a sense of camaraderie about the place, a haven for the people who devoted their lives to the service of others.

"Stable?" He looked back at the paper and shrugged. "He doin' this himself?"

"Building it? Yes. I'm the only servant on the premises."

The man's eyebrows raised in surprise. "A house wi' only one servant? Must not be very grand. What's the estate, then?"

Isabel felt her annoyance growing at the man's insufferable curiosity. "I do not believe it has a name. It's a modest house with some gardens around it."

"Is there a lake?" came a soft voice from behind her.

Isabel spun around and faced a lovely young woman with tightly-bound brown hair and shining, wide blue eyes. She looked at Isabel with a politely inquisitive expression, her small hands elegantly folded in front of her, enveloping a reticule.

"Yes, there is a lake. And an orchard."

The woman smiled triumphantly, releasing something of a giggle. "_You_ live in that house! I'm so delighted to meet you!" She stuck out a hand.

Isabel stared at it for a moment, taken aback by the woman's abruptness. "The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure," she said carefully, extending her hand and shaking the young woman's.

"Samantha Kinneston, ma'am. I live just down the road, at the Forester's house." She gave a brief curtsey. "I've been working for them for as long as I can remember." She gazed at Isabel expectantly.

"It sounds very… ah, consistent." Isabel blinked at her own words.

Samantha burst into giggles. "Yes, I suppose it is! You must forgive my forwardness, but everyone in town has been _so_ curious as to whatever became of that house! The Churchmans…" her eyes wandered to the blacksmith, who was listening intently. She shot him a cold look and he straightened, grabbing the papers off the table quickly. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll ge' to work on these straight away, ma'am. Should 'ave them done by tomorrow." He turned and disappeared into the back room.

Samantha turned her smile back to Isabel. "As I was saying, the Churchmans left that house a few years ago."

"The house I live in?"

"The very same! They just vanished! No one knows what happened… there were rumors, of course." She sniffed slightly, crossing her arms. "Murders and ghosts and whatnot. I don't believe a word of it, myself, but that doesn't stop me from feeling uneasy around the place now."

"Ghosts?" Isabel said faintly.

"So the village's children say. Hellions, all of them. I wouldn't believe them if they told me my head was on fire."

Isabel smiled.

"That being said, I do feel awkward doing so..." the young woman bit her lip and a light pink appeared on her cheeks. "I simply must ask… whoever bought the estate?"

"Erik Bertrand," Isabel said with an air of pride. Naturally, she didn't expect this woman to have any idea who Mr. Bertrand was, but that didn't stop her from wishing to make a good impression. It was a habit left over from Weatherby Park, where the servants were instructed to use Mr. and Mrs. Northing's name whenever possible. Feeding egos was a large part of wealthy society.

The woman's eyes clouded with some confusion, but her smile only widened. "My, how handsome he sounds!"

Isabel bit the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter building in her chest. "Do you think so?"

Samantha went pink again. "Oh, forgive me. I do say the silliest things." She smiled apologetically. "Is he a gentleman? I assume he is of no profession, being so removed from town."

"Yes, he is a gentleman." Isabel inwardly smirked at the idea.

"How lovely. That estate is so beautiful, I think. The cherry orchard is simply stunning this time of year." The young woman's smile became wistful. "The Churchmans were so kind. They were close acquaintances of the Foresters', you know, and always allowed me to walk through their gardens whenever the weather was pleasant."

"It's a long way to travel for a stroll," Isabel observed.

"The result is worth the journey." Once again, Samantha smiled. "It was so nice to meet you, Miss…"

"Mrs. Isabel Bauer."

"Mrs. Bauer." The woman curtseyed again. "I do hope we'll meet again."

"I'm sure we will, Mrs. Kinneston."

"Oh! Miss, if you please." Samantha grinned. "I am unmarried. Terribly dull, I know."

"On the contrary, Miss Kinneston," Isabel said lightly, picking her satchel up and sliding it onto her shoulder. "This conversation has been more interesting than many I've had with married women."

She turned to leave. As she let the door shut behind her, she distinctly heard giggling from inside the shop.

* * *

_Catnip and fresh cream to the beta, Chat. Crazy-busy and still finds time to fix my typos. I'm a lucky writer.  
A shout-out (type-out?) to the lovely Jennyfair, for making me smile at the beginning of a very long day.  
The word "hellion" appears courtesy of Random-Battlecry. Don't ask.  
Your reviews are encouraging and helpful and all things good. _


	11. Ten

**Chapter Ten**

"Christine."

The name fell from his lips sweetly, his tongue forming the syllables with practiced ease. It still brought confused images to his mind, thoughts that twisted her into perfection even more. _Christine. Christ. Savior. Christine, my savior._

She stood before him now, her dark curls falling gracefully to her bare shoulders. Her skin was pale - not with illness and self-neglect, like his own. No, her flesh was as white and pure as ivory, almost as if reflecting her terrible innocence. Even now, with a faint blush staining those too-pale cheeks, her wedding dress soiled and torn, her fingers twisting her skirt, she was beautiful. She was perfect.

_Christine. I love you._

He didn't even notice that he had spoken the words aloud.

She moved towards him slowly, lifting her wet skirts and kneeling beside him.

"Yes," she said calmly. She raised a hand to his mangled face and stroked lightly, a gentle touch on a harsh terrain. "Yes," she repeated, lifting her head to his and capturing his lips softly. The warmth her mouth created spread across his skin, a stinging heat running down his spine. He reacted carefully, moving his mouth against hers with an infinite gentleness. She slipped a hand behind his head and ran her fingers along the nape of his neck, pressing her lips harder against his.

He broke the contact, breathing harshly and shutting his eyes against the wetness he felt building behind them. She leaned her forehead against his, releasing a sigh. He opened his eyes slowly and gazed at her warm smile. The gentle curve of her mouth remained the same, the dark lips looking just as he had memorized and sketched so many times. But her hair had straightened... her skin had darkened into a sun-kissed tan... her eyes were no longer a vivid blue, but a honey-brown... he pulled back and gazed at her.

When she murmured his name under her breath, her voice was not her own.

Erik's body shook with panic as he awoke.

His hand flew to the right side of his face, shielding it protectively. He stood from the chair he had reclined on, hissing at the pain that shot through his head at the movement. He glanced derisively at the glass of brandy sitting on the end-table. The decanter next to it was almost empty, he noticed. He must have drank more than he thought.

Rubbing his temples, he breathed deeply to calm his thundering pulse. It wasn't the first dream he had woken from shaking - Christine appeared in his mind often, whether he was conscious or not, and her presence never failed to electrify him. _Just as it had in reality,_ he realized darkly, seating himself on the ottoman next to the chair. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he glanced at the tray of food Isabel had left for him.

_That woman._ He quirked an eyebrow as he thought of her.

She was no great jewel, physically speaking. Tall and lean, she appeared somewhat awkward and gangly at times, tripping over her skirts or stumbling as she entered a room. She utterly lacked the delicate grace and beauty he had become accustomed to seeing in the fairer sex. The ballerinas at the Opera Populaire were truly lovely beings to behold, despite their occasionally wretched performances. Appearance was everything to stage performers, and the ballet rats took it to heart. Hours were spent in front of mirrors, applying coal and rogue to perfect the color of their faces. Barre exercises were repeated ad naseum, shaping their curves pleasingly. Little Meg Giry had certainly grown into a stunning young woman, blonde-haired and fair-skinned, her flirtatious smile commanding the attention of every room she entered. Even her mother had retained some of the gentle beauty of her youth.

But Christine...

Christine was an ethereal creature. Her every feature was in some way surreal... her eyes bluer than any he had seen previous... her dark, cascading curls more voluminous... her skin, paler and softer than silk...

_Her mouth._ Oh, he remembered. The dark lips had always entranced him, whether they were parted in song or tightly shut in fear.

_Or pressing against mine._

He stood abruptly. He picked up the small glass of amber liquid and threw it back, swallowing with a wince. The brandy assaulted his senses immediately, loosening the pressure on his lungs and replacing the pounding in his head with a peaceful lightness. He sank back onto the couch, pressing the glass to his forehead.

Isabel's mouth was identical to Christine's. The same deep color, the soft curves... smiling with nerves, gaping with alarm. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before.

That was really all of his former student that he saw in the woman. Where Christine had been rather easily intimidated by his harsh criticism and angry tones, Isabel seemed to show no reaction whatsoever. He could still detect the moment his words cut through her... those lips would set firmly and her eyes would narrow ever so slightly. _Not intimidated, but easily annoyed._ He smirked, setting the glass back on the table. Her eyes, he had noted, were a very dull brown, and her straight, dark hair had no character whatsoever. Her appearance was, all in all, rather plain. He would have been able to ignore her completely... if it hadn't been for that mouth. Such a thing to notice on a woman. Two strips of flesh that could bring pleasure or pain with mere words, that could form music to drive you mad with desire... that could destroy you with a kiss.

Erik lifted his hand slowly and slipped the mask off, rubbing his sore flesh. He opened one eye and gazed at the tray of food on the small table next to the piano.

_Perhaps it is time to live.

* * *

_

Isabel stared at the empty tray for several moments. The sight of it, bare, save for the plates and a few crumbs, had startled her completely, and she hadn't quite recovered yet.

Not bothering to suppress a pleased smile, she lifted the tray and sped down the stairs, almost flouncing into the kitchen. Picking a saucer up and placing it carefully in the washing basin, she idly wondered if it was the particular dish she had prepared that had tempted him into finally taking a meal. The roast had been particularly good, the bread had come out of the oven crusty and moist, and the canned vegetables had been seasoned to perfection, complimenting the meat with their light sweetness. Even a man as stubborn as Mr. Bertrand could not resist the call of such a delectable feast.

Or perhaps he was simply hungry after having fasted for several days.

She washed the dishes slowly, prolonging this delightfully simple chore. She would need to make the journey into town again today, and she scowled at the idea. Her legs still ached from yesterday's trip and she had no wish to cause them more pain. But Mr. Bertrand wanted his materials from the metal shop to finish his ridiculous stable, and perhaps Thomas' trousers were ready to be collected. She would have considered asking Mr. Bertrand if she could borrow the funds to get a carriage home from town, but a voice in the back of her mind told her it would be unwise. Her own purse was almost empty, and spending what remained on a cab would be decadent and foolish.

Wiping the last of the dishes dry, she ran a finger along the edge of the chipped porcelain. The dishware, like everything else in the house, was aged and ill-cared for. She placed the dishes in the cabinet carefully and turned back to the basin, glancing out the window.

The blue sky was streaked with dark gray clouds, casting an ominous shadow over the house. She groaned at the idea of being caught in a thunderstorm during the trip to town. Wrapping her arms around herself tightly, she shuddered. _Please, don't let it rain._

A yawn sounded behind her and Thomas stumbled in blearily, rubbing his eyes. He blinked up at his mother and smiled tiredly, his eyes still unfocused with sleep.

"Good morning, Mama."

"Good morning, darling. How did you sleep?"

"Not well." He sunk onto a chair by the kitchen table. "The ghost kept me awake."

She raised her eyebrows. "So you're acquainted with him now, are you?"

Thomas shook his head. "I heard him. Through the walls. He was moaning."

"He was moaning."

Thomas nodded.

"Darling," Isabel walked over to her son and seated herself on a chair next to his, "I was in the room across the hall from yours, and I didn't hear any moaning ghosts."

"Grown-ups don't hear them. They never do."

"Why is that?"

"Because grown-ups have too much sense to listen."

Isabel stared at him for a moment. "I see." She stood, wiping her damp hands on her apron. "Are you hungry, dear?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "I'll make you some breakfast." She strode over to the cupboard and opened it, taking out the remains of the loaf of bread. A faint rattling coming from the open window startled her, and she looked out it again.

Mr. Bertrand was leaning over a board, examining it carefully. Once again, he looked rumpled, and the sight still caught her off-guard. His dress shirt was smeared with dirt and rust, a smattering of color among the crisp white of the lawn. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Isabel noticed, with a touch of annoyed concern, that the bandage on his injured hand looked damp and red. She glanced at his face. His brow was set in lines of concentration, his lips parted slightly, his tongue between his teeth. The mask was smudged with dirt and blood. She turned away from the window, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of the house. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she smiled at Thomas, who was eyeing the bread with eagerness. She cut through the loaf and spread some butter on the slice, handing it to her hungry son.

"We need to go back into town today."

Thomas grumbled through his food.

"I know it isn't fun, but we have to do it. Your trousers may be ready, and Mr. Bertrand's supplies need to be collected."

"I'm sure the trousers fit, Mama."

"You're coming with me, Thomas."

"But I don't want—" He cut himself off at the look Isabel shot him.

"I don't either, dear, but we must." She folded her arms impatiently. "Eat up. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return."

Sighing loudly, Thomas bit down on the bread with all the tragedy he could muster and cast his mother a mournful look.

* * *

The pieces from the metal shop weighed down Isabel's satchel, and she tried to ignore the ache in her shoulder. Thomas trotted behind her gloomily. A pout had taken residence on his face for the past hour and he was making his impatience known.

"Honestly, Tom, all you have to do is step into the trousers, make sure they don't slide over your bottom to the floor, and be done with it. It will take all of five minutes."

He grunted.

Isabel looked over her shoulder at him. "You're beginning to sound like Mr. Bertrand."

Thomas' eyes grew wide and he scrambled to keep in pace with his mother. "I'm just tired, Mama."

Isabel stopped in her tracks. Turning to face him, she sank to her knees in the middle of the road leading through the town, placing her hands in her lap.

"My darling," she said gently, "I know very little for certain, but I know that our new life will be difficult for us. I know that there will be times when we are sad and just want to go back to our old lives. But we can't, Tom. We have to be here. This is our path." She looked around herself and raised an eyebrow. "Literally." She faced him again. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama," he said quietly.

Isabel stood, wincing at the satchel strap digging into her shoulder. "Let's get it over with, then. Come." She held out her hand for Thomas, and he took it quickly, squeezing his fingers around hers.

Mr. Sanders' door opened with a faint creak as Isabel stepped inside, pulling Thomas next to her. "Mr. Sanders?" she said softly, glancing around the shop. She let go of Thomas' hand and passed a rack of cloaks and shawls, all marked down for the season. Reaching the counter, she knocked on it, clearing her throat. "Mr. Sanders?" she repeated louder. "Are you in?"

A scuffling sound came from the backroom and the black curtain separating it from the storefront was pushed aside as Mr. Sanders rushed out. "Mrs. Bauer!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together joyfully. "What a delight! Your little boy's trousers were just finished this morning! Let me collect them!" He spun around and ran back into the backroom.

Thomas made a sour face. "I'm not a little boy."

Isabel patted the top of his head. "He's old, darling. You're little compared to him."

"Is he older than you?"

"I would say so." She smiled politely when Mr. Sanders appeared again, unfolding a pair of dark wool trousers and grinning merrily.

"Come around back here and we'll have a try-on, alright, Mr. Bauer?"

Thomas, never having been addressed this way before, shot his mother a perplexed look. She shrugged slightly, silently urging him to get on with it. He nodded and went behind the counter, taking the trousers from Mr. Sanders.

"There's a changing room just in the back. Yes, back there... go straight, you can't miss it." And Thomas disappeared behind the black curtain.

Mr. Sanders turned his full attention to Isabel. "Mrs. Bauer, how are you on this truly beautiful day?"

"I'm very well, Mr. Sanders. I trust you are the same."

He rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, his smile taking up most of his face. "Absolutely the same. Spring always brings out the best in me." He chortled.

Isabel's fixed smile wavered. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes! The fresh air, the new buds, the insects crawling with renewed vigor. It's a wondrous time to be alive."

"Indeed, Mr. Sanders. I can only hope to someday achieve your level of... enthusiasm, for the passing seasons."

"And if I may say so, Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Sanders leaned in closely, giving a conspiratorial wink, "you are as lovely as a fresh-cut flower."

Isabel felt her face warm. "Mr. Sanders, surely such flattery is not necessary. I am already a customer."

The short man gave a loud chuckle. "Your wit is impeccable, ma'am! No, I do mean it sincerely." he strode around the counter and to the rack of discount items. Plucking a shawl off of it, he held it out to her. "That cloak you were wearing the other day looked a bit woebegone, Mrs. Bauer. It will be too warm to wear soon, but perhaps you could do with a new shawl?" He waved it open, admiring the stitching. "A particularly fine wool, ma'am. You'll notice the lace trim? Imported from Paris, you know. I'm partial to this burgundy color, but perhaps you prefer the emerald." He tossed the shawl on his shoulder and picked a green one off the rack, examining it for flaws.

Isabel had backed into the counter. "I have a shawl, Mr. Sanders, but I thank you very much for the offer."

He shrugged and put the shawls back, coming around the counter again.

"Do you know, Mrs. Bauer, I haven't asked--"

"They fit, Mama." Thomas appeared next to the counter, the new trousers hanging perfectly on his frame.

"Oh, wonderful!" She opened her reticule quickly and dug through it. Selecting some coins, she plunked them on the counter and gave the tailor a warm smile. "Thank you so much, Mr. Sanders. They're perfect."

Mr. Sanders waved a thin hand jollily. "Not at all, ma'am, not at all. 'Tis my pleasure." He bowed.

Isabel shot him one more grateful smile over her shoulder as they left the shop.

"Isn't Papa Mr. Bauer?"

"What?" Isabel looked down at her son. His brow was furrowed in thought.

"Mr. Sanders called me Mr. Bauer. Isn't that Papa?"

"Oh. You're Mr. Bauer, as well. Because you're Papa's son."

"If he had a daughter, would she be Mrs. Bauer?"

"No, she would be Miss Bauer."

"But you're Mrs. Bauer."

Isabel nodded slowly. "Yes, but I'm Papa's wife, not his daughter."

"Oh." Thomas kicked at the dirt ground as they walked on.

A peaceful silence settled over them as they continued the journey back to the house. The sky was still touched with gray clouds, but the sun shone through them, illuminating the road with a ghostly paleness. Rubbing her shoulder gingerly, Isabel sighed contently, reveling in the warmth of the breeze.

"Are you still his wife?"

Isabel stopped. "What?"

Thomas looked up at his mother innocently, his brown curls falling into his eyes. "Are you still Papa's wife? Even though you never see him?"

"Of course I am."

"And I'm still his son?"

Isabel grabbed Thomas' hand and pulled him along the road, quickening her pace. "Yes, darling, you're his son. You will always be his son." She swallowed. "Come now, keep up. I want to begin work on that parlor before nightfall."

The rest of the trip was silent, save for their footfalls. Isabel released a slow breath in relief when Mr. Bertrand's house appeared. Feeling a sudden surge of energy, she lifted the satchel higher onto her shoulder and walked quickly down the road, Thomas struggling to keep up behind her.

She opened the front door and entered the house hastily, walking towards the kitchen. "Put your old trousers in the room next to mine, darling," she called over her shoulder. "We can use them for scrap material."

"I can go upstairs alone now?"

Setting the satchel on the kitchen floor, Isabel peered out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand step out of the gaping hole in the center of the stable's wall. He turned and studied the building closely, wiping a spot of dirt off a board. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Yes, you may go upstairs alone." Hearing him move up the stairs slowly, she picked the satchel up and walked to the door, opening it and slipping outside quietly. She strode to the stable and stood next to Mr. Bertrand, waiting to be acknowledged. He ignored her presence and continued to gaze at the wooden building critically. She turned her head to face him and was greeted with the masked side of his face, still soiled with streaks of brown and red. Now that she was closer, she could see that he hadn't shaved that morning - dark stubble colored his pale skin, making him appear even more pallid than before. Isabel looked away quickly, suddenly feeling as if she was intruding, although he had certainly noticed that she was there. She coughed slightly to get his attention.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauer?" His eyes didn't leave the structure.

"The items you requested, sir." She pulled the canvas sack from her satchel and held it out to him.

He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye but made no move to take it from her.

"Hmm." His gaze returned to the building.

Isabel dropped the bag onto the ground, startling herself at the loud rattling that issued from it, and turned on her heel, striding back to the house. The childish desire to stomp her feet flared up inside her.

"Today, Mrs. Bauer," she muttered to herself. "I would be _much obliged._" Remembering the result of her last imitation of her employer, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Standing, she reached for her apron and tied it on, smoothing the thin cotton over her skirts. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep, but there were several hours of daylight left, and parlor was in need of attention.

Taking one more look out the window, she saw Mr. Bertrand laying the metal pieces in a row, inspecting each item carefully. She snorted. "A stable." She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Miles I walk to town for materials so a man with no livestock can build a stable. Does he bother to thank me? Of course not." Rolling her shoulders to relax the cramped muscles, she went into the hallway, preparing to hike up those ridiculously steep stairs. Looking up, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, dark-skinned man, twisting an astrakhan hat in his hands nervously.

* * *

_My word, whoever could that be?  
Warm, gooey thanks to Chat, the grammar-checking plot-helping bar-keeping ballerina. Yes, she's as cool as she sounds.  
_


	12. Eleven

**Chapter Eleven  
**

Isabel had a habit of gaping her mouth in surprise. It was a characteristic she hated, overtly feminine and silly. Daniel would never cease to tease her about it, the way her hand would fly to her heart as she inhaled sharply, how wide her eyes would grow. She was a helpless woman in moments of panic, a twittering fool with no sense of reason.

But, looking at the tall man with the startlingly green eyes and the warm brown skin, she surprised herself by shrieking.

The man looked shocked for a brief moment, then dropped his hat and waved his hands about wildly. "Madam!" he cried in an unfamiliar accent. "Madam, I beseech you, be calm!"

Isabel shut her mouth and placed a hand over her churning stomach. "Sir! You do not let yourself into the home of a gentleman unannounced!"

The man bent and retrieved his hat, wringing it in his hands again. "I apologize for startling you, madam, but I had no idea Erik was… keeping company."

Isabel grabbed a fistful of skirt and twisted violently. "I am his housemaid, sir."

The man's eyebrows rose. "His housemaid? I see." He stepped back and gave an elegant bow. "Nadir Khan, madam, at your service."

Isabel stared at the man blankly, her hand still at her stomach, her nerves still shaken. "Isabel Bauer," she said faintly. A thudding from upstairs sounded and Thomas appeared on the staircase, looking alarmed. "Mama, were you screaming?"

"Ah… yes, darling, but I'm alright." She motioned for Thomas to come to her and he complied, hopping down the narrow stairs and standing beside her. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked at the man. "My son, Thomas."

Mr. Khan bowed again, his smile fading a bit as his gaze fell to Thomas. "Mrs. Bauer. Mr. Bauer. A pleasure."

Thomas stared at the man with awe. "You're not English!" he exclaimed.

"Thomas," Isabel muttered in a warning tone.

Mr. Khan waved a hand. "No, that's quite alright. I am not English. I am from Persia, as a matter of fact."

Isabel blinked in surprise. "You're a long way from home, sir."

"Or very close to it, should I choose to reside in England." His smile grew again and Isabel paused, gathering her wits.

"How are you acquainted with Mr. Bertrand, sir?"

"Who?" The man looked confused.

"Mr. Erik Bertrand?" She rubbed her stomach absently. "The master of the house?"

"Bertrand?" the man looked mildly amused for a moment, his eyes darting around the hallway. "Is that his name now…"

If he noticed Isabel's inquisitive expression, he didn't respond to it.

"I've known Erik for many years."

It wasn't an answer, but Isabel knew it was all she was going to get from him. Patting Thomas' shoulder, she raised her eyes to meet Mr. Khans'. "I'll fetch him, sir. He's by the gardens."

"The gardens?" the man said curiously. "Out in daylight, is he?" He peered around Isabel's form, as if trying to see Mr. Bertrand through the wall.

"Yes, sir, he is. I shall return with him presently." She turned to go.

"No need, Mrs. Bauer. I would prefer to make my presence known myself." Giving another polite bow, he wandered into the kitchen behind Isabel, and she heard the door to the backyard creak open.

She gave Thomas' shoulder a quick squeeze and dashed to the kitchen window, peeking through the faded lace curtain discreetly. Mr. Bertrand had his back to her, measuring a space on the wall of the stable. Mr. Khan stood a few feet from him, quietly observing. Then his voice broke the silence, speaking in a tongue Isabel didn't recognize, and Mr. Bertrand spun around, his eyes flashing. His body seemed to deflate when his gaze reached the man in front of him: his shoulders slumped, his arms fell to his sides. Isabel saw his mouth move, but his words were far too faint to make out. The dark-skinned man, however, must have understood, because he strode forward and offered Mr. Bertrand a hand. Mr. Bertrand stared at it for a moment before lifting his arm and shaking with the man, still looking strangely defeated. She glanced from the foreigner to her employer… and saw those blue-green eyes staring directly back at her.

Isabel dropped the curtain and tripped away from the window, feeling heat crawl up her face.

* * *

"Why a stable?" Nadir's eyes stayed on the structure, a trace of amusement evident on his face.

"Why not?"

"Really, Erik," the Persian sighed, seating himself on the ground, "I do wish you would make sense once in a while." He nodded towards the wet bandage on Erik's palm. "That hand looks like it is on the road to infection, if not there already."

Erik raised the hand and examined it briefly. "I have not had time to treat it, I'm afraid."

Nadir rolled his eyes upwards. "Merciful Allah. A pointless stable comes before an injury. Really, you are incorrigible, my friend."

"The horses will need a place to reside, unless I let them wander around the orchard, eating all my fruit and leaving piles of dung for me to step in." Erik picked up a hinge and scowled at the poor quality of the piece. "Shoddy. One drawback of living out here is having no variety in metalworkers."

"I don't seem to remember you complaining about that much in Paris." Nadir's brow lifted as he gazed at the building again. "Of course, you weren't constructing shelters for invisible horses in Paris, either."

Grunting, Erik began aligning boards, wiping blood from the wood impatiently. "The town nearest here is too long a journey to make on foot. I plan on purchasing some horses to pull a cart."

"For all your social outings, no doubt."

Erik shot his friend a wary glance. "I don't suppose you will readily tell me your reason for suddenly appearing, _daroga_ You always did like a mystery."

Nadir sniffed indignantly. "How utterly untrue. I simply wished to see how you were. 'Checking up on you,' I suppose you could say."

"And how did you find me?" Erik selected a metal brace from the line of materials and placed it on the board, glancing around for his hammer.

"I _was_ the chief of police, if you'll remember. I have retained some of my stealthy ways."

"I do not doubt it," Erik muttered, driving a nail into the wood with unnecessary force. "However, my departing from Paris was done in complete secrecy and without a single human being's knowledge. You must have known where I was going."

Nadir merely smiled.

"Very well. How long do you plan to stay?"

"As long as I am welcome. So less than a month, I would imagine."

Erik snorted. "You were not invited. Ergo, your welcome has already worn out. But," he added at the Persian's dark expression, "since you have traveled the distance already, it would be pointless for you to stay elsewhere." He released a slow breath, staring down at the adjoined planks with some satisfaction.

"It is a simple structure," Nadir observed pleasantly, leaning against the side of the building.

"Yes," Erik said quietly. "Very simple."

"In earlier years, you would have completed it in a matter of hours."

"I am drawing this task out as long as I can, I must admit. I find the distraction it offers to be a comfort."

There was a moment of silence as Erik stood back from the planks and took up a curved metal strip from the organized line of materials in front of him. He knelt and drew up a ladder, leaning it against the gaping hole in the center of the building. Sticking the handle of the hammer into the waistband of his trousers, he climbed the ladder slowly, aligning the metal strip along the top of the hole.

"I met your housemaid."

Erik dropped a nail. Cursing, he swiftly descended from the ladder and picked it up, peering at it closely. "Yes. Mrs. Bauer."

"Isabel," Nadir said slowly. "A charming name."

"If names can be charming." He climbed the ladder again.

"I'm afraid I startled her rather badly. She shrieked quite loudly when I arrived."

"Shrieking upon accepting guests. How terribly like her."

"And I met her little boy," Nadir continued, ignoring Erik's irritated tone.

Erik snorted. "Yes, her son. Thomas, I believe his name is. He spends most of his time drawing on scraps of moldy paper and reading salacious poetry."

"I beg your pardon?" Nadir's mouth was curved into a faint smile. "He sounds perfectly fascinating to me."

"You know I am not overly fond of children in general. I would not be the right person to judge his character."

"You found a place in your heart for some children," Nadir said softly, his eyes focused on a dark cloud passing overhead.

Erik glanced at Nadir briefly. "Perhaps."

"Ah," Nadir said in a hushed voice. "Such a cool countenance, monsieur. And you are angry - that I can tell. You probably have been for some time." He released a sigh, a look of sadness suddenly taking his face. "You are unwell. I have never seen you so thin; and your complexion! You are paler than death! You have not taken care of yourself in your grief, I see."

Erik felt his shoulders tighten. "Do not speak of grief, _daroga_ It is not a subject I wish to dwell on."

"You must speak about the happenings of that night sometime, Erik. You need to-"

Erik descended down the ladder slowly, carefully placing his feet on the ground. "_Daroga_, you would do very well to cease this conversation immediately." The words were spoken mildly, but the threat was plain.

Nadir stared at Erik silently. He drew a breath and shook his head. "If you continue to push these thoughts from your mind, you will never be free of your past decisions. You must accept them, Erik, as the inexorable truths that they are."

Erik slammed his injured hand into the wall, curling the fist tightly and shuddering at the sharp pain that ripped down his arm.

"Why can I not escape my past!" he shouted, rounding on Nadir. "Why must I always be reminded? I have suffered for my sins; why do they still haunt me?"

"Oh, Erik," Nadir said, the look of sorrow still lingering on his face. "Pasts haunt. It is what they are meant to do, to forever torment us. I believe we are supposed to learn from them, but…" he turned his head and gazed at the orchard, a small, ironic smile shaping on his lips, "sometimes, the grief is too all-consuming to allow any education."

Cursing, Erik turned and strode towards the house, leaving the Persian leaning against the stable, still smiling sadly at the cherry trees.

* * *

Isabel ran a thin cloth over the table in front of her, examining the clean streak she had created in the dust. She heaved a tragic sigh, looking around the room with distaste. It wasn't as daunting as the library, to be sure, but the entire room was covered in dust and grime, and the chairs and sofa were all threadbare and stained. There was no way to make them presentable, but she would do the best she could. Lifting her head proudly, she glanced back at the small, dirty table, and sighed again, slumping her shoulders. She had forgotten the monotony of the work, the thankless job of keeping a house in a tidy, organized state at all times. She was quite horrified to admit that, upon reflection, she was beginning to remember how she really didn't care for the work at all. Dropping herself into a cushioned chair, she surveyed the room lazily. The floors needed to be swept and scrubbed, the windows needed to be washed, the furniture needed to be…

"Burned," she muttered to herself darkly. The upholstery that covered the chairs and sofa was a dull gray, embroidered with pink buds and light green leaves. She wasn't normally one to be critical of furnishings, but the entire set was simply atrocious. It was no wonder the former owners had left them there to rot.

A loud thudding going up the stairs startled Isabel from her musings, and she jumped off the chair. Walking to the door, she peeked out of it cautiously. Nothing looked amiss or out of place. Making a mental note to tell Thomas not to clomp up and down the stairs so loudly, she began to shut the door again when a sharp crack issued from over her head. Swinging the door open, she rushed to the staircase and hurried up it as fast as she dared. Mr. Bertrand emerged from his room, a look of shaken fury etched on his face. Even the mask seemed to glare.

"Have you been inside my boudoir, Mrs. Bauer?"

His deadly calm tone unnerved her.

"No, Mr. Bertrand." She took a step back, easing herself against the handrail of the staircase.

"I do not suppose you have seen a crate containing vials?" He looked at her steadily, his injured hand flexing gently at his side.

"Vials? No, I haven't seen any vials."

"Damn," he swore, turning away from her. "That bloody lout who transported my belongings from the dockyard… I knew he was untrustworthy…"

Isabel blinked at his mutterings. "Is there something I can help with?"

"No," he said stiffly, moving towards his room. "I am sure I can tend to it."

Glancing at the red bandage, Isabel sighed. "What were in the vials, Mr. Bertrand?"

He stopped, turning his head to look at her. His body paused for a moment, as if he was considering his answer. "Medicines," he said at length. He stayed still, his eyes remaining on her form.

"Is it your hand?" she asked quietly, her fingers gently tugging at her skirts. "Has it become infected?"

Mr. Bertrand's gaze sharpened. "It is none of your concern."

"Mr. Bertrand," Isabel said crisply, stepping forward, "it is of no concern to _me_ if your hand falls off from neglect, but I do think _you_ will mind. While it is my job to take care of your home, it is also my duty to help _you_ in any way possible, as well."

"Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand said in a low voice, "I am very adept at tending to wounds-"

"Is that why that cut hasn't healed in all the days you've had it?"

The question hung in the air. Isabel took another step back, suddenly very aware of the thickness of the humid air. It felt suffocating in that hall, as if the dark walls were closing in on her. Mr. Bertrand's heavy gaze rested on her once more, but he was silent. The thought that he may be too infuriated to respond crossed her mind, and she edged closer to the railing of the stairway, keeping as much distance as she could.

"You would be wise to never use that tone with me again, Madame."

Isabel looked up at the cold words. "Pardon my impertinence. I merely wish to help." Her voice was soft, and she realized that she was coaxing him, gently beckoning him to allow her to assist him in this one task, this impossibly human problem. Perhaps it was the maternal side that Thomas had created in her, but at this moment, despite his imposing height and obvious anger and harsh words, she saw a hurting man who needed help, even if he would rather suffer than admit it.

Mr. Bertrand grunted in the back of his throat and he whipped past her, heading down the stairs. "Get me some alcohol."

Isabel rushed after him, stumbling down the stairs and hurrying into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. She removed the cap and sniffed it delicately, shuddering at the sour odor.

"Get a rag."

Isabel spun around. Mr. Bertrand stood inches from her, taking the bottle from her hand and placing it on the counter. Slowly, he unwound the cloth from around his hand, wincing. Isabel rooted through another cupboard, withdrawing strips of cloths. She turned towards him and her eyes fell to the wound on his hand. The cut itself was inflamed, a thick, grayish fluid mingling with the blood that still dripped out steadily. The entire palm was an angry red with dark streaks formed around the wound. She shut her eyes, trying to quell the sickness she felt in her stomach.

He went to the washing basin and eyed it with disgust. "Is this water clean?"

"Yes. I pumped it this morning, before going to town."

He nodded slightly, dipping his hand into the water and gently washing the wound. She could see his muscles tensing, but he made no sound. After several minutes of silently cleaning the injury, he turned back to her.

"The bottle."

"What?" she said faintly, carefully keeping her eyes away from the wound.

"The bottle, Mrs. Bauer! If you insist on helping me, _help._"

She turned and picked up the bottle, taking off the cap, and handed it to him quietly. He grabbed it from her and took a swig, swallowing loudly and closing his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he held out his injured hand and poured the whiskey on the wound, hissing as the liquid hit the flesh of his palm.

"Rag!" he commanded, setting the bottle back on the table. Isabel quickly handed him the clean cloth, and he gently dabbed at the wound, grinding his teeth.

Isabel held the bottle out again silently, and he accepted it, throwing the rag to the floor. Pouring more whiskey on his hand, he seemed to relax somewhat. He handed the bottle back to her and she grabbed a fresh cloth. He wiped at the wound, shuddering deeply.

"I shall need to gather some supplies from town to properly treat this," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on his palm. "I assume, perhaps foolishly, that there is an apothecary in the village?"

"Yes. Hardings', I believe it is called."

"Very well." He selected another clean rag and began to wrap it around his hand. "I will not send you into town twice in one day, but you must go tomorrow. I have been idiotic in letting this go on as long as it has."

"Mr. Bertrand, wait." Isabel raised a hand and placed it on his arm gently. His body stilled completely at the contact, and he looked on her with an expression she could not place. Surprise, wonder… perhaps even horror. She removed her hand quickly and dropped it to her side, her face heating.

"Just wait one moment," she mumbled, turning back to the cabinets and digging through them. She removed canvas bags of dried beans and jars of fruit preserves, muttering about disorganization. Finally, she spotted what she was searching for. Smiling triumphantly, she withdrew a canister of honeycomb. Opening it, she pried some of the sticky wax out and crushed it between her fingers, walking back to Mr. Bertrand.

"Give me your hand," she said firmly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Your hand, Mr. Bertrand. It will only take a moment."

He held out his injured hand, watching her closely.

She placed the canister on the counter beside them and took his wrist with her clean hand, pulling it towards her. His skin was cool, despite the faint dampness of sweat glistening off it. She felt the slow throb his pulse on her fingers and she moved her hand, unnerved by the sudden intimacy of the situation.

Forcing herself to focus on the wound, she pressed the honeycomb into it gently, holding Mr. Bertrand's forearm firmly. He jerked his arm back at the contact, cursing, but she merely glanced at his face and continued the application, dipping her fingers into the canister and collecting more honey. She gently wiped around the wound with her finger, clearing off any excess, and took a rag in her hand, trying to clean the sticky comb off her fingers. She picked up the cloth Mr. Bertrand had been tying around his palm and wrapped it around the wound slowly. Knotting it carefully, she stepped back, walking to the basin to wash her hands. Seeing the water, red from Mr. Bertrand's blood, she stopped. She grabbed the basin and hurried out the door with it, throwing the tainted water into the backyard. She barely registered Mr. Khan staring at her openly from the orchard, a bemused expression on his face. She rushed to the water pump and rinsed the basin out, wiping frantically at the sides of it until the water in it was clean and clear. She let out a long breath, holding her hand under the stream of water until the honey was washed from it. She picked up the basin and went back into the kitchen. Mr. Bertrand was staring at his hand.

"Honey to treat infection?"

"A remedy my grandmother swore by," Isabel replied lightly, returning the basin to its place. "It always seemed to work, as well. It will do until I get to town tomorrow."

Mr. Bertrand's eyes flicked from his hand to her face. "I see," he said quietly. He straightened himself slowly, his cool presence somewhat dissipated. "I shall make out a list of what I will need from the apothecary."

"Please do," Isabel said pleasantly. She felt a strange calm in the room, a begrudging respect coming from him. She resisted the smile that her mouth wanted to form.

"Mr. Khan and I will take dinner in the library tonight, I think."

"Very well."

He nodded stiffly and walked to the door. He paused, casting her a sidelong look. Turning to face her, he inclined his shoulders briefly, and it occurred to Isabel that he was giving her a bow.

She returned the gesture out of habit and when she looked up he was gone. Looking around the kitchen, she saw him striding back towards the stable. How he had left the room without making a sound was beyond her.

As horrible as seeing his injury had been, she felt a certain relief at the sight of his blood. There were times when she wasn't completely convinced the man was human. The unearthly music, the silent creeping, the violent temper. Such things seemed other-worldly. She glanced down at the bloody rags on the floor.

If it hadn't been for that physical evidence of his mortality, she would have suspected she was dealing with not a man, but a ghost.

* * *

_As always, the beta, Chat, is the supreme being of the universe. She edits, she suggests, she helps, and the story would be a hopeless pile of rubbish if not for her.  
Gracious, 100+ reviews. I'm stunned. And bouncy with joy. You're all wonderful._


	13. Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Sunlight poured through the thin lace curtains covering Isabel's window and spread over her form, warming the bare skin it touched. Her nightshift had slid up her leg during the night, pooling around her waist, and she had kicked the blankets off her body in her sleep, exposing her legs to the rays. She reveled in the heat silently, keeping her eyes shut. More than anything at this moment, she wanted to stay in this bed, unneeded and unmoving. To rest for a while. It annoyed her to no end, knowing that such a simple desire was impossible to fulfill. Groaning at her childishly selfish wants, she rolled over. Cracking an eye open, she blinked hard at the bright light that met her, and pushed herself up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gasped at the sharp pain that streaked up her calves, a hard stinging that nestled into her thighs and hips. Cursing softly, she forced herself to stand, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. The journeys into town were certainly making themselves known. She was unused to walking such distances, and to travel so far by foot, so many times in such few days, had given her body a thorough beating.

Rubbing the small of her back gently, she opened her trunk, selected a gray dress and laid it on the bed. The small chest of drawers that had been in her room was still empty; she lacked the motivation to unpack. She was hardly ever on the third floor, except to sleep, and by the time she remembered that all her belongings were still waiting to be put away, she was too exhausted to do anything about it.

Fastening her corset, she grabbed the dress off the bed and stepped into it gingerly, ignoring the dull throb of pain coursing down her legs. She slipped her shoes on and wandered into the hall blearily, pinning her dark hair up in a neat chignon. Thomas's door was open and she peeked into his room, _tsking_at the mess. Clothes were strewn on the floor and draped on the bed, books were splayed everywhere, sheets of paper with stick figures drawn on them were scattered across the room. She stepped into the room fully, calling Thomas's name softly. There was no response. A flicker of panic rose in her chest. _If he was up… if he was awake, God only knew what he was up to… and with Mr. Bertrand's fickle tendencies_… the man was still an enigma to her, and she didn't trust him around her child.

Gathering her skirts, Isabel fled down the stairs. "Tom?" she called, fighting to keep the alarm out of her voice. "Tom!"

"In here, Mama!"

Heaving a shuddering sigh in relief, she moved towards his voice, pausing at the doorway of the library.

Thomas sat on a cushioned chair, a large atlas in his hands. The Persian was on a seat next to him, reading over the boy's shoulder. The man looked up at Isabel and smiled warmly. "Good morning, Mrs. Bauer."

"Mr. Khan," Isabel said breathlessly, leaning against the doorframe for support. "A very good morning to you."

"Mr. Khan is telling me about Persia!" Thomas' small face glowed with enthusiasm, and the dark-skinned man chortled.

"Your son has a sharp mind, Mrs. Bauer. He is very eager to learn."

"Oh, yes," Isabel said, smiling faintly. "We're very proud of him."

Mr. Khan's eyebrow quirked. "Does your husband also reside here? Erik did not mention him."

"No, my husband is in Liverpool."

"I see." Not pursuing the subject, Mr. Khan turned his attention back to the book Thomas was holding. He pointed to place on the page. "Mazenderan. Where I am from."

"Please pardon the interruption," Isabel said, straightening herself, "but do you know if Mr. Bertrand is still in bed?"

"Bed?" An amused smile graced the Persian's mouth. "I doubt he went to bed at all. He tends not to, you know. He never was one for rest." He paused, looking thoughtful. "No, I haven't seen him since last night. The last I saw of him, he was nursing a large glass of brandy and thumbing through a Brontë novel."

Isabel let her shoulders slump dejectedly at the mention of the spirits. "Oh," she said, looking around the library idly. "Well, thank you. I'll go start breakfast."

"More likely than not, Madame, he simply went for a walk." Mr. Khan's kind smile was still on his lips. "He does that from time to time. He insists it clears his head, though I have yet to see that particular phenomenon."

Thomas snorted.

Casting him a stern glance, Isabel turned back to Mr. Khan and curtseyed briefly. "Thank you, sir. I am sure he is fine, wherever he is."

Mr. Khan inclined his head briefly and went back to the atlas, pointing at various landmarks on the page and reciting bits of Persian history to Thomas. The boy sat perfectly still, obviously awed by the fountain of knowledge currently seated beside him. Smiling to herself, Isabel left the room quietly. Entering the kitchen, she quickly collected ingredients for the morning's meal. Placing the eggs, bread, and butter on the counter, she began searching for a clean bowl. She ducked into a lower cabinet and retrieved the item, placing it on the table in front of her with another small feeling of triumph. She would send Thomas down to fetch the cream from the cellar later.

She moved to the water basin and leaned over it, opening the window. She closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh air contently. _Simple beauty._ She opened her eyes and they fell on the stable. A large door now stood where the gaping hole had been, and she peered at it in surprise. The man really _did_ never rest. She gazed on the structure with approval, admiring the craftsmanship. She knew nothing about carpentry, of course, but she knew what an attractive building looked like, and this particular one was lovely. She saw no sign of Mr. Bertrand lurking about, so she cautiously walked towards the door outside. Opening it, she stepped into the yard, strolling towards the stable quietly. "Mr. Bertrand?" she said softly, looking around her. "Sir?"

She was met with silence.

Shrugging to herself, she examined the new door. It slid open easily and she looked inside the building, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two large pens were constructed inside, a feeding net hanging in both of them, small gates standing open and inviting. She wandered further in and ran a hand along the smooth wood of the wall. Another door had been installed opposite the one she had entered, and she pushed it open slowly. He had built a corral around the back of the stable, a simple fence surrounding a large patch of firm ground. She was certain it hadn't been there the previous evening. Turning, she walked back through the stable and slid the door shut behind her.

A faint thudding caught her attention and she shielded her eyes from the sun, searching for the source.

Mr. Bertrand's lithe form emerged from the shadows in the orchard, his tall body striding towards Isabel. He gracefully swept past the blossoming trees, his appearance, once more, immaculate and pristine. His dark hair was slicked back, combed neatly away from the pale skin and white mask. His black coat was slung over one arm and the white lawn of his dress shirt looked crisp and clean, complimenting the midnight-blue waistcoat he wore. The pressed trousers rustled against his legs with every step he took. She noticed that his face remained unshaven, the dark hair still covering his chin. It struck her, not for the first time, what a terribly impressive presence he was.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bauer," he said coolly, pausing in front of her.

"Mr. Bertrand," she nodded. "I took the liberty of touring the stable. My compliments."

"A true challenge," he said dryly. "A sturdy shack. Still," he added, looking behind her at the building, "it did serve a certain purpose." He fell silent, still gazing at the structure.

A branch just behind Mr. Bertrand swayed and Isabel glanced at it absently. It moved again, and she furrowed her forehead as a dark shape appeared from behind the tree, peeking out curiously. Jumping back in alarm, Isabel tripped over her skits and fell onto her bottom with a loud _thud._

Mr. Bertrand looked down at her with a mildly puzzled expression. "Looking for something?"

"What is that!" she pointed to the shape and scooted back on the grass.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Bertrand looked in the direction she was indicating and released a sound not entirely unlike a chuckle. "That, madame, is a horse."

"What is it doing here?" Isabel gathered her skirts, her face flushing, and made to get herself up. Mr. Bertrand sighed impatiently and offered her his uninjured hand. Eyeing it uncertainly, she grasped it and let herself be helped up.

He dropped her hand. "It appears to be staring at us."

"Where did it come from?"

"Really, Mrs. Bauer, you must learn to control your impulsive inquisitions. They grow tiresome."

Isabel shut her eyes tightly and counted to ten, silently urging the annoyance building in her chest to cease.

"I happened upon them this morning. The owner was only too glad to be rid of them, for a price. So here we are." A corner of his mouth lifted. "They are rather handsome, are they not?"

Walking towards the orchard slowly, Isabel caught sight of another form lurking just behind the animal she was staring at. The horse that was cautiously walking towards her was dapple gray, brown-eyed and smaller than the one behind him. The other animal was pure black, save for a white streak that ran across its face like a scar. It gazed at her with dark eyes, completely still.

"They're beautiful," she breathed. "Where did you get them?"

"Some poor fellow I met on the road. He was in desperate need of money, I daresay." Mr. Bertrand approached the animals silently, and both horses merely stared as he neared them. "I offered him a good price and he agreed immediately." He stood before the pitch-black animal, holding one hand up and gently placing it on the horse's neck. "Two geldings, already broken. An unfortunate term," he added quietly.

Isabel absently dusted her skits off and stood back, crossing her arms. "You don't have them on leads."

Mr. Bertrand turned his head towards her, looking surprised. "There was no need. They followed me."

"They _followed_ you?"

"Animals have senses we humans can never hope to achieve, Mrs. Bauer." He continued patting the horse's neck, and the animal nudged closer to the touch. "They know I mean them no harm." A faint smile crossed his lips. "And I do not."

Isabel remained silent, gazing at the animals with unconcealed wonder.

Turning abruptly, Mr. Bertrand strode towards the stable, passing Isabel wordlessly. The horses trotted silently behind him, ignoring the presence of the bewildered woman in their midst.

* * *

_Daniel,_

_Mr. Bertrand has a guest. Mr. Nadir Khan is an old friend of Mr. Bertrand's and will be staying at least a month. He is Persian and his entire appearance seems out of place among us Europeans, what with his dark skin and strange accent. Mr. Khan has been terribly kind so far, teaching Thomas about the __Middle East__ and its customs. He seems very well-educated, Mr. Khan. I think I shall enjoy his visit. _

_Mr. Bertrand has completed a stable in record time. For several days, the entire endeavor seemed rather pointless, but still, he worked day and night on it, sending me into town to fetch materials from the blacksmith and being too absorbed in his work to properly thank me. The result is surprisingly pleasing; it is a simple structure, but it was made with care, and it will do well for the horses he has just purchased. _

_Yes, horses. Mr. Bertrand bought them just this morning, quite unexpectedly. He got them, for a good price, off a farmer not too terribly far from us. Two geldings, barely five years old. Thomas is ecstatic, of course. He can't stop staring at them with his usual wide-eyed wonderment. There are days when I do not know what to make of him… one moment he's in awe of everything around him, and the next he makes comments that sound so wise, I would mistake him for an old man. Perhaps this is the nature of all children… perhaps we are born with all the world's knowledge instilled in us, and it slowly slips away as we grow older and more cynical._

_I find myself wondering what __Liverpool__ is like this time of year. It has been so long since I was near the ocean… yet I can still smell the waves, the salt stinging your senses as you breathe it in. It is almost as if you're drawing part of every living creature in that ocean into your body each time you inhale; every whale, every shark, every manner of life that dwells in that endless sea. I remember feeling my heart beating when I was near the ocean, strong vibrations in my chest that I had never noticed before, and it made me more alive than I ever have been. I do hope that is how you feel, Daniel. If I have one hope, it is that. _

_Forgive me, I am writing thoughts as they run through my head, and this is not the appropriate place to do so. _

_I trust you are well, and that you will write soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Isabel

* * *

_

Lifting her skirts, Isabel slowly climbed the stairs, not bothering to grip the handrail. Her entire body felt drained from the walk to town earlier in the day, haggling with the apothecary, and all the hours spent waging war on the parlor. Dinner had been a simple meat sauce with fresh bread and vegetables, but she had only the energy to give Thomas a dish, serve Mr. Bertrand and Mr. Khan in the library, and head for her room. After finishing a letter to Daniel, she had tucked Thomas in and forced herself to go back to the kitchen to clean so that she wouldn't be greeted with a mess in the morning. Now she was dragging herself up those damnable stairs, too exhausted to eat and far too exhausted to care. Slowly making her way across the hall on the second floor, she saw a thin stream of light glowing from Mr. Bertrand's bedroom door. A faint grunt sounded from the room and she paused.

Mr. Khan, she had been told, was staying in Mr. Bertrand's study, and she had never seen her employer's bedroom door ajar before. She leaned against the railing briefly. That curiosity… that horrid curiosity that she had always been without… it was beginning to pull at her, to needle at her brain the way she had been told it did for other people. She had never seen inside Mr. Bertrand's study or his bedroom, and the knowledge that there were parts of the house that she was forbidden to view, forbidden to be a part of, incensed her. He was like a child. He wanted things immediately – a maid, a meal, a stable – and he had a streak of selfishness that reminded her of her son, a possessiveness most children have for a favorite toy. The sharp look he had given Thomas when the boy had rushed near the horses; it was pure venom! The meaning in the expression was perfectly clear: _mine._

She shook her head. She was being ridiculous again. It was late; she was just tired and oversensitive.

_Let him have his toys,_ she thought. _Let him keep his secrets._

A hiss of pain came from the room and she groaned in irritation. It was her duty to see what the matter was. Not just as his employee, but as someone with some concern for his well-being. That hand had been enough proof to her that Mr. Bertrand was entirely incapable of caring for himself, and Isabel felt the uncomfortable weight of disquietude settle over her.

_"Do not disturb me," he had said. _

"Well," she muttered, gathering her strength, "he can just hang himself." She approached the door and knocked gently, waiting to be either ignored or met with a cool, sarcastic voice. There was a silent pause, then rustling from within the room.

Mr. Bertrand opened the door, a calm expression on his visible features. His white lawn shirt was tucked into his trousers, the blue waistcoat clearly having been removed for the evening. She glanced down and saw one of his bare feet tapping impatiently. Drawing back, she cleared her throat. "Your door was open, sir." She bit her tongue, silently cursing herself. "Mr. Bertrand. I thought it would be prudent to inform you that I am retiring for the evening. Is there anything else you will be requiring?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "No, of course not. Good evening." He began to shut the door. Isabel peered at his face for a moment and slammed a hand onto the door, pushing it open. "Mr. Bertrand," she said in a low voice, too tired and incredulous to care if the tone offended him. "What have you done to your face?"

Mr. Bertrand's eyes narrowed and he yanked the door out of her grasp. "My face," he hissed, "is none of your concern."

"Why is it bleeding?" She stepped closer to him and lifted her hand to his chin, turning his head away to better examine the injury.

He jerked his head away from her. "An accident while shaving, Mrs. Bauer. It happens to all men, I am afraid. Now, if you will kindly take your leave."

"An accident shaving?" she said rudely. "You're shaving before bed?"

"Mrs. Bauer," he snarled, "you have crossed the line of impudence with this conversation. I will say it one more time: good night!"

"I will not have more infected wounds to attend to, Mr. Bertrand. If you require help, all you need to do is ask. Request, command, order, I don't care what you call it, but it is my job to obey your every whim, however odd it may be, and I will be damned if I don't do what is expected of me."

Mr. Bertrand swung the door open and stared at Isabel. His eyebrow had arched into his hairline and his mouth was set in a firm line. If he was alarmed by the outburst, he was hiding it well.

"Very well, Mrs. Bauer," he replied finally, that silken voice gliding across her. "If you wish." He held the door open.

Crossing her arms protectively, she walked into the room and glanced around. A large fireplace was situated in the wall, an overstuffed chair in front of it. A four-poster bed with blood-red velvet hangings stood majestically in the corner, and Isabel suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable with the situation.

"You wish to attend to me, Mrs. Bauer, and you shall."

She turned to face him. He stood next to a table with a basin, a small mirror hanging on the wall in front of him. A razor sat on the table, a small bottle of lather next to it.

"My injured hand is, as fate would have it, my dominant one. I simply cannot use my left hand for something as precise as this. It was not the way my body was made to function, I suppose." He picked up the lather brush and stuck it in the bottle, stirring absently. "I cannot stand this beard, you see… cannot stand it for one moment longer, but I cannot appear to be rid of it without assistance." He smiled slowly, a devastating curling of his lips that left Isabel filled with a sense of cold foreboding.

Carefully lifting the bottle of lather, he held it out to Isabel.

"Please, Mrs. Bauer. Do help me."

Uncrossing her arms, she took the bottle from him with a nerveless hand. His eyebrow quirked once more, and a surprised expression flitted across his face. She raised her hand to his face and pressed his head to the side once more, dabbing the lather onto the skin, carefully avoiding the mask. Placing the bottle back down, she took up the razor and looked Mr. Bertrand in the eye. "If you're sure, sir."

He lifted his chin slightly in answer.

Isabel gripped the razor and brought it to his face, slowly sweeping along the curve of his jaw. She bit her lip as her brow furrowed in concentration. She had done this before, but it had been years ago, when she and Daniel were newly-married and easily amused with each other's bodies.

Mr. Bertrand remained stock-still. The only movement she saw on him at all was the slow throb of the pulse in his neck, a rhythmic thrum that was almost hypnotizing to look at. Focusing back on carefully scraping the razor against his skin, she mindlessly searched for a conversation.

"How are the horses?" she asked quietly, swishing the razor in the basin's water.

"They are adjusting well," he replied. She stared at him for a moment; though he had certainly spoken, he still had not moved. It was almost as if he were talking through closed lips.

"I see," she said, moving the razor back into place. She tilted his head back slightly, positioning the razor against his throat. His muscles tightened, but he remained stationary as she swept the razor across the skin lightly, rinsing it in the basin water again. "Do they have names, or shall we refer to them as the noble steeds?"

"They were named this morning." Mr. Bertrand's hands rose to rest on the table behind Isabel, and she found herself being flanked by his arms. Stepping back slightly, she jerked his head down harder than necessary and scowled at his smirk.

"May I be privileged to learn their new titles?"

"The dapple is Loki. The black is Bellerophon."

Isabel paused, the razor hovering above his cheek. "Odd names for livestock."

Mr. Bertrand's eyes flicked to hers briefly. "Loki was the Norse god of mischief. A fitting namesake, considering the somewhat overly playful nature of the creature." He flinched as she ran the blade over the small cut he had made on his face. She apologized quickly and pressed a finger to the wound, stemming the flow of blood.

"Bellerophon," he continued evenly, "was the hero who defeated the Chimera with the aide of the Pegasus. I thought that particular animal had a certain heroic quality about it."

"Hmm." She slowly scraped the blade against his chin, peering at the raw skin closely. She didn't dare ask about what to do with the mask – he had made no move to adjust or remove it, and she knew better than to request that he do so. Wiping the blade against her skirts to dry it, she reached behind her and picked up a handkerchief that had lain next to the basin. Dipping a corner of it into the water, she gently wiped away the excess lather and the small stream of dried blood on his cheek. Placing the handkerchief behind her, she folded her hands in front of her and waited politely for Mr. Bertrand to step back.

He didn't move, but gazed at his reflection in the small mirror behind her. He lifted one hand and ran it over the smooth flesh of the visible half of his face, his fingertips dancing on his own skin. He turned his head and looked at Isabel intently. She gazed back, undaunted.

"You have done this before."

She nodded, although it wasn't a question.

"An acceptable job, Mrs. Bauer." He touched his face once more, his eyes still fixed on hers. "I thank you." His slow, deliberate smile came to his face once more, and Isabel suddenly felt every inch of her skin grow hot. She remembered the music she had heard… the part of this man who had gripped her mind unknowingly, torn memories from her with no effort. His dark gaze was beginning to unnerve her. She could feel those memories slipping from the firm grasp of her mind again… he was drawing them out with his eyes, just as he had with his music.

She slid away from him, mumbling a "goodnight" and stepped out of the room quickly, shutting the door behind her. Rushing down the hall, she hurried up the stairs and into her room, closing the door and leaning against it. She let out a long, slow breath and slid to the floor.

"He is not powerful," she whispered. "He is not powerful." Over and over she repeated it, like a desperate prayer in the darkness.

* * *

_Attack of the long chapters! Will they ever stop growing? Gah!  
Chat the Wonder Beta still rocks the world, and I loff her.  
As always, the reviews undo me. Reviewers are my heroes. _


	14. Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

The thin silk sheets twisted around Erik's form tightly as he shifted in his bed. The air was humid, thick and hot and suffocating. He turned again, quietly cursing as he kicked the blankets from his bed. It was just too bloody hot to sleep. But he was tired. Finally, the exhaustion was winning, and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and slip into blissful unconsciousness.

So, of course, the blasted preternaturally warm weather wasn't allowing it.

A clap of thunder roared overheard and Erik struck the pillow next to his head forcefully. Sliding off the bed, he sighed as his feet hit the cool wood of the floor. He lit a candle and picked the mask up off the bedside table, slipping it onto his face.

He lifted a black, silken robe off the rack near his closet and slid it onto his shoulders, leaving his bedroom quickly as another crack of thunder sounded.

Thudding down the stairs, he tied the robe sash loosely around his hips and entered the kitchen, stopping in front of the washing basin and peering out the window. Rain was falling in thick sheets, obscuring the view from the house. He absently glanced upwards as the thunder continued, followed closely by a white streak of lightening.

Even over the raging storm, he could hear the horses moving in the stable, panicking thuds of hooves on wood and loud, frightened whinnying. He hastened to the backdoor and swung it open, rushing to the small building by the gardens as quickly as he could. Sliding the door open, he stepped into the stable and went to Loki. The gelding was tossing his head frantically and let out a loud shriek, dropping to its knees and huddling in the corner of his pen. Erik climbed the fence and knelt next to the scared animal, speaking soothing words in a calm voice. His hand stroked the animal's neck gently, and Loki lowered his head, eager for the contact. Smiling softly, Erik gave the animal a final pat and stood, slipping out of the pen through the gate. Bellerophon seemed undaunted by the storm and merely stared at Erik curiously as he passed. Pressing his fingers briefly to the horse's dark nose, Erik exited the stable and slid the door shut behind him.

He leaned against the building, shutting his eyes and feeling the cool water hit his robe. He stepped out further and the downpour descended onto him, immediately soaking his silk robe to his body and running off his skin in thin streams. He tilted his head up and silently reveled in the cool water hitting the flesh of his face. It dripped down the mask, catching in the eyehole and slowly dampening the skin beneath. He removed the porcelain slowly, letting the hand that held it drop to his side, and shuddered at the sensation of the water touching the deformity so openly.

The rain continued, cooling his skin.

For several minutes he stood, motionless, letting the storm soak him. He raised his hand and placed the mask back onto his face, securing it tightly. He turned and hurried back into the house, running a hand through his hair and shaking out the water that clung to it. The sleeves of the robe dripped onto the floor of the kitchen, leaving a puddle around his feet. He shrugged it off and went to the cabinet, withdrawing a large bowl. He squeezed the sleeves and hem of the robe, the water pouring from the material into the small basin. Shaking the black silk and wincing as drops of rainwater struck his skin, he folded the robe over his arm carefully and leaned forward, opening another cabinet door.

Bottle of spirits lined the cupboard and he selected one at random, pulling the cork. He lifted it to his lips, anxious to feel the liquor's calming warmth take effect, when a figure moved out of the corner of his eye. He lowered the bottle and turned to fully face the intruder.

Isabel stood in the kitchen doorway, a shawl around her shoulders, her white nightshift falling around her frame loosely. Her dark hair was down, the first time he has seen it so, and the straight locks were in a tangle. Her eyes, wide with surprise, looked darker than usual, the honey-brown tinted with dark gold. He noticed, with amusement, that there were pillow creases on her cheek.

"Mr. Bertrand?"

Her voice cracked with sleep and she paused, pressing a hand to her throat and clearing it.

"Mrs. Bauer?" He set the bottle on the table gently and Isabel's eyes darted to it, a look of alarm taking her features.

"What are you doing?" she asked, clutching her shawl and tightening it around her.

"I am standing in my kitchen. What are you doing?"

"Oh, I... I thought I would..." her fingers grasped the shawl and tugged at it absently. "I just thought I would check on the horses. The storm and all. They may have been frightened."

"How very noble of you. I only did just that, and they appeared to be fine."

Isabel dropped her hand from the shawl. "Oh. Good. I wasn't sure how they would react, this storm being so awful and... and this being their first night here and all..."

Erik sighed impatiently. "Yes, well, all is well, so you may return to bed."

Isabel's eyes narrowed. "There's no need to sound like a headmaster."

Erik reached behind him and gripped the bottle, drawing it behind his back. "Really, Mrs. Bauer, your fierce sarcasm and wit has the ability to wound when properly applied. Kindly spare my feelings and _return to bed._"

Her eyes were hovering on the right side of his face, her gaze raking the edge of the mask.

"Mrs. Bauer."

She remained still, silently staring at him.

"Mrs. Bauer!"

Her head snapped up and she flushed a deep crimson. "Of course. I do apologize for... right, of course." She spun around and fled the room, her shawl snapping behind her.

* * *

Isabel tossed her shawl over the footboard of the bed and sat on the mattress, absently wiping at the thin layer of sweat forming on her brow. The shawl had been more for modesty than anything else, and the added heat had made her brief visit downstairs unbearable. She let herself fall back onto the bed and stared at the darkness above her. The window beside her bed was open, the curtains billowing. A fresh gust of cool air hit her skin, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling slowly, imagining all her tensed emotions leaving her with that breath.

A deafening crack of thunder startled her, and she sat up, wrapping her arms around herself. She wouldn't be able to sleep with this commotion... it would be a miracle if Thomas made it through the night without coming to her room for comfort from the frightening noises outside. She gazed out the window, watching the bright flash of lightening against the black sky.

A dull _thud_ sounded downstairs and she held her breath, silently praying that Mr. Bertrand was simply returning to his rooms. An eerie quiet fell over the house once more, and she rested her head against the wall behind her, noticing the steady thrum of her heart in her chest and focusing on its rhythm, grateful for its unwavering consistency.

_Mr. Bertrand._ She shut her eyes again, tightly. His words still echoed in her mind, the domineering command tainting his ethereal voice. _Return to bed._ As if she was a child, an ingrate to be bullied. She felt a dull sort of anger build in her, and she exhaled slowly, willing it to pass. Her reaction to the man disgusted her. The only other person who could irritate her so easily was Daniel, but he knew her only too well; he could always select the perfect nerve to pinch to get her to react in whatever way he desired. She rolled her closed eyes. She really was just a child... a twenty-eight year old child who was easily annoyed.

Another clap of thunder sounded outside and she glanced at the window. Rain was pelting into the room, a small puddle beneath the will reflecting the sharp bolt of lightening that exploded overhead. She stood and rushed to the window, slamming it shut. She turned quickly and slipped on the water at her feet, her legs splaying in front of her and her bottom connecting with the floor loudly.

She sat there for a moment, her nightshift rapidly absorbing the water, and clenched her jaw. Standing slowly, she wrung the shift out, splashing water along the floor. Muttering to herself darkly, she glanced back out the window and saw the stable illuminated by the lightening. It stood among the thunder and rain solidly while the trees around it shook and swayed, a pillar of strength amidst beings only too willing to bend to nature's commands.

She wasn't sure why the horses were the excuse she used earlier, facing Mr. Bertrand's potential anger. Their well-being wasn't something she was particularly concerned with, but it would have made an acceptable reason to be downstairs in the middle of the night.

Massaging her temple, she remembered what had drawn her down there in the first place.

_It was the storm that had awakened her. _

_She slid out of bed and stared out the window, hypnotized by the roar of thunder and sudden, blinding streaks of lightening. _

_Storms had always captured her, ever since her childhood... the thick air that surrounded them, the rainwater raging down with a force akin to vengeance. The horses were restless inside the stable - even from the distance she was at, she could hear them: hooves against walls, loud, scared noises seeping through the thunder and rain. Standing, she was about to return to her bed when a form emerged from the house below her, a tall figure striding towards the stable. She squinted and peered closer, trying to make out a face in the thick sheets of rain pouring. The form disappeared into the building for several minutes, then slipped back out, sliding the door shut behind them. It drew nearer the house again, slowly, and recognition dawned. Mr. Bertrand stood in the rain quietly, head tilted up into the water. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes sticking to his thin frame tightly. For several moments he simply stood, absorbing the storm. Isabel sank to her knees and watched, wishing she could make out the expression on his face. She had never seen him look content, not really, and the thought that he may be displaying some sort of happiness that she just couldn't see, somehow frightened her. She chewed her lip absently as she continued to gaze on him, trying to bring his form into focus as much as possible._

_Then, his hand rose to his face. _

_It was a slow, gentle movement, so fluid she barely noticed he performed it. She saw his fingers grasp the edge of the mask, carefully, deliberately, then tug. She watched the porcelain disconnect from his face and felt a shiver run through her; it was as if she was watching someone remove their very flesh. It took a moment for her to realize that she hadn't taken her eyes off the mask that he now held in his hand, at his side. She couldn't raise them to his face. A fear gripped her, thick and hot. If she saw... and he knew... she would need God's mercy. If she saw, she would be violating him, taking unfair advantage of his brief moment of security. If she saw, she would never again be able to meet his eyes. If she saw, she would never again be able to look upon him without fear, or pity, or repulsion._

_She stood abruptly, backing away from the window. She couldn't look at his face._

_She just couldn't.

* * *

_

Erik hung the robe on its hook and seated himself on the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. He gazed into the dark hearth, a finger stroking his still-smooth chin. Extending his injured hand in front of him, he stared at the crisp whiteness of the bandage, blending so easily with his pale skin. The bottle of gin he had taken from the kitchen sat on the table beside him and he reached for it, turning it over in his hands and watching the liquid inside roll with his movements. He set it back on the table and crossed his arms over her stomach, fingering the bandage. The rainwater on him had woken him fully, he realized, eyeing the bed with distaste. Sleep would never come now. Fatigue was such a delicate thing for him, a necessary demon that was too easily frightened away. He felt the material of the chair begin to absorb the water from his clothes and he shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with the chilled dampness touching his skin.

A creak sounded behind him.

Resting his head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes. "Come in, Nadir."

He received an irked grunt in reply.

Footsteps thudded towards him and he heard a wooden chair scrape across the floor, stopping beside him.

"Still a mind-reader, I see."

Erik snorted and cracked an eye open, glancing at the Persian disinterestedly. "My talents are many."

"And humble, as well." Nadir settled onto the hard chair and grimaced. "This is how you treat your guests? Take the most comfortable chair for yourself and then not even offer them a drink?"

"The bottle is right here," Erik said pleasantly, nudging it with an elbow.

"Are there glasses?"

"No. I was not prepared to entertain anyone this evening. You will have to forgive me."

Nadir picked the bottle up and examined it mistrustfully. "Surely you do not expect me to drink directly from this."

"I expect you to go back to the study and fall into a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep." Erik passed a hand over his face. "Why are you awake, anyhow? Really, daroga, you are much too old to be frightened by thunderstorms."

"I am afraid I cannot seem to sleep tonight." Nadir gestured around the room lazily, the bottle still in his hand. "The heat, I would imagine." He tugged at the collar of his shirt.

"Hmm." Erik stretched his legs out and slid down into the chair, resting his chin on his chest.

Nadir paused and peered at the man next to him. "When on earth did you shave?"

Erik's eyes snapped to the Persian's face. "Pardon?"

"You were distinctly scruffy earlier in the day, and now you are clean-shaven." Nadir leaned back in his chair, tapping the glass bottle in his hand absently.

"Truly, your eye for detail is unmatched."

"It simply strikes me as odd." He raised a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Of course, most of your idiosyncrasies are, I suppose."

Erik grunted.

Nadir shook his head and lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a small sip of gin. He lowered the bottle and sputtered, his face twisted unpleasantly. "Cheap liquor, Erik? How unlike you." He set the bottle down on the table and coughed.

Erik grabbed the bottle and glared at Nadir. "I had all the spirits in this house brought up from London, _daroga_, and they were anything but cheap." He took a swig of the liquor and winced, brusquely wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It tastes thin." Nadir's eye sudden lit up with amusement. "Almost as if it's been watered down."

Erik set the bottle on the table with a deadly slowness. "What did you say?"

Nadir's delighted grin only incensed him more. "I do believe your little maid is looking out for you, my friend."

Erik stood, knocking the chair back. He strode towards the door and banged it open, sweeping through the hall and down the stairs, entering the kitchen silently. Jerking the cabinet door open, he withdrew several bottles, pulling the corks out of each one and tasting the liquid inside. The amber color of the brandy was lighter than it had been last night, the flavor duller. Seething, he took a gulp of the whiskey - the same bottle that he had poured over his wound - and groaned at the flat taste. He threw the bottle against the wall and struck the cupboard door. The thin wood cracked beneath his fist and he felt a surge of satisfaction, tracing the split with his finger.

He spun and walked towards the door calmly, ignoring the shattered glass under his feet. Climbing the stairs, he passed Nadir silently. The Persian was wearing that frustrating expression: the soothing, steady look that all fathers learned to acquire to calm screaming children.

"Erik, I am sure it was not meant as-"

"The woman is insufferable!" Erik hissed, not looking back at Nadir. "She has no sense of boundaries and I have had enough of her inexcusable behavior!" He opened the door to the third floor and started up the stairs.

"Erik, perhaps she simply worries for your health... you barely eat, you work your body far too hard, and now consuming spirits like a common drunk? Of course she is concerned!"

Erik reeled around on the staircase, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You know nothing of me now! You know _nothing!_"

Nadir slumped against the doorframe limply, sighing. "I know more than you think, my friend. I know how you waste away. Do not release your venom on her because she does not wish to see what I have seen."

A moment of silence passed, the two men staring at each other.

Erik tore his eyes from Nadirs' and continued up the stairs. "Perhaps it is time for Isabel Bauer to learn what many other have." He let an ironic smile take his lips. "The Phantom will not be defied."

* * *

_It takes me twelve years to update and when I do, it's short with this weird cliffhanger thing on the end. How lame am I?  
Chat's mad betaing skills continue to stun me.  
Reviews do, too. Stable-shaped candy to you all!_


	15. Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

The grass swayed in the breeze, waving like the ocean's tide as the wind swept against it. The sun's gentle rays warmed Isabel's skin and she slid down the tree she was leaning against, the bark scratching her through the thin wool of her dress.

Thomas trotted over to her, clutching his father's hand. ''Mama,'' he said urgently, his eyes wide and panicked, "he's here."

"Who, darling?"

"The ghost," Daniel answered, letting go of his son's hand. She rose her eyes to meet his, warm brown meeting dark blue. She shifted her gaze and looked at the green field over his shoulder, focusing hard on the sweeping grass.

"The ghost is just in your head, darling."

"He's here, Mama," Thomas insisted stubbornly. "He's here, and he wants to talk to you."

Isabel sighed. "Does he?"

"Oh, yes," Daniel said quietly. "He keeps asking for you."

She glared at her husband. "You shouldn't encourage him."

Daniel smiled patiently. "He's asking for you, Mrs. Bauer."

She felt her mouth part in surprise. "What?"

"Mrs. Bauer," he repeated softly. "Mrs. Bauer."

"Stop!" she hissed.

That smile still graced his lips. "Mrs. Bauer."

Isabel clapped her hands over her ears.

"_Isabel!_"

She heard herself gasp as she woke.

Looking around the black room frantically, she swung her legs off the bed.

"Tom?" she croaked.

"No," a voice from the doorway said coolly.

Rising from the bed cautiously, she craned her neck towards the presence at the entrance of the room. "Mr. Bertrand?"

The voice was silent.

"Is something wrong?"

A faint snigger responded.

Slowly, she moved towards the door. "Mr. Bertrand?" she repeated, loud enough to mask the waver of nerves in her voice.

A streak of lightening lit the sky and she made out Mr. Bertrand's form standing just inside her room, arms crossed, back straight. A flicker of alarm struck her.

"What is it, sir?"

She heard him draw near, the almost silent footfalls suddenly beside her. Peering into the darkness, she could see the outline of his face, the curve of his chin and arch of his brow.

Even in the blackness, she could sense that something was very wrong.

"Mrs. Bauer," he said softly, his breath brushing her face. "I am afraid I find myself dissatisfied with your services."

Isabel took a step back. "Dissatisfied?"

"At first," he continued, the smooth voice nearing her again, "your impertinence was tolerable, even amusing at times. But your nagging, prying habits have lost their charm." He drew a breath, exhaling slowly, sadly. "Really, Mrs. Bauer, you are a very foolish girl, aren't you?"

Isabel's back hit a wall; she hadn't noticed she had been moving away from him.

"Fool..." her voice died in her throat as he leaned in, pressing her to the wall with his presence. His arms rose and his hands settled on the wall next to her, pinning her in place. He lowered his head to be level with hers and she swallowed, desperately trying to dampen her dry throat. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't touching her... he was keeping a careful distance between their bodies: a deliberate, slight space, and she found it more unnerving than if he had grabbed her outright.

"In the past several days, Mrs. Bauer," he said in a dangerously calm voice, "you have disrespected me, spied on me, _mocked me,_" - Isabel flinched - "and invaded my privacy on more than one occasion."

Her eyes widened. "I did not!"

She heard him still his breathing. "I beg your pardon?" He pressed himself close to her and she shuddered. "Do you dare to contradict me, _Isabel?_"

"If I have been disrespectful, sir, I think would be aware of it. And perhaps I have, but I have never violated you in any way!" Her heart throbbed painfully against her ribs; she felt her legs begin to shake. _Oh God, he had seen._

"Stop your trembling, child. It does not impress me."

She shut her eyes and willed her body to stop quaking. "Mr. Bertrand," she said carefully, "I know I have offended you--"

His hands pressed against the wall harder; from the corner of her eye, she could see a vein along his finger begin to throb with the pressure. His head lowered to hers and he exhaled harshly, his lips curling into a snarl. "And what, Mrs. Bauer," he said in a fearfully low voice, "are you planning on doing about it?"

Isabel raised her head defiantly, ignoring her forehead touching his. "I would apologize, Mr. Bertrand, if I thought it would help."

"But would you mean your apology? Or would you simply be reciting what you believe I wish to hear?" He moved his body forward and Isabel felt his legs touch the front of her nightshift. She pressed her legs against the wall and stood as tall as she could, silently battling the raging fear in her chest.

"I would never lie to you, Mr. Bertrand."

"You are lying now!" he snapped, hitting his hand against the wall beside her head. She shrank, hunching her shoulders together. Her expression must have finally betrayed the terror she felt, because he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath, and lowered an arm, dropping it to his side.

"You have invaded where you had no place to do so."

She kept her gaze as steady as she could. "The spirits, sir?"

His deathly glare answered her.

"I am sorry if it offended you." She let her eyes drop to the floor, silently thanking God that he had not seen her watching him in the rain. "I was merely concerned for your health."

"Yes, my health seems to have you rather preoccupied, Mrs. Bauer."

"It is in poor condition. Why you ignore that fact, I cannot begin to imagine."

He clenched the fist at his side. "This body does not deserve care, Mrs. Bauer, and I am the ideal person to inflict the appropriate punishment onto it."

She looked at him incredulously. "Very well, then, Mr. Bertrand. I was concerned for myself and my child. I have worked for employers who drank before, and I know, only too well, what can happen to a man. A man who is good and kind and intelligent to begin with." She rose an eyebrow. "Not to mention those who were not. And it was not an experience I wished to relive or expose my son to."

"Mrs. Bauer," he said with a hiss, "I am not like other men."

"Yes, sir. I have been noticing that."

He paused. Cursing, he hung his head and ran a hand through the still-damp hair, tugging absently at snarls.

"Go."

She stared at him, drawing deep breaths slowly. "What?"

"Go," he repeated, his head still down. "Leave now."

She brought an arm up and slid it around her waist. "And go where?"

His eyes met hers, the dark orbs burning. "It is of no concern to me where you go. Remove yourself from my home at once, and take that wretched child with you. Return to your husband, where you belong. He should be made aware of your nature. Or perhaps he already knows." A smirk flicked at his mouth. "Perhaps that is the reason Mr. Bauer is so far from Mrs. Bauer."

Isabel's jaw dropped. "Mr. Bertrand, you really-"

"I have known women before you who have plagued me with stubbornness, Mrs. Bauer," he snapped. "Do not tempt me to treat you the way I treated them."

Isabel lowered her eyes and nodded.

He withdrew, turning and leaving the room without a backward glance.

Isabel was startled by the tears sliding down her face as she watched him retreat.

* * *

The hollow stairs echoed under Erik's footfalls as he descended from the third floor. He pulled the door shut behind him and ignored Nadir's flustered presence beside him in the hallway.

"What have you done to the woman?"

"I excused her."

Nadir let out a relieved sigh. "You are finally getting wiser, my friend."

"From my employment, Nadir. I excused her from the position."

Nadir groaned, rubbing his eyes gingerly. "You are still a master at overreaction, I see."

"It is my home!" Erik shouted, turning to face the Persian. "_My_ home, and I will not be treated like a misbehaved schoolboy in it!"

The daroga studied his friend quietly. "Did she offer an explanation, or were you too consumed by your blind fury to notice?"

"She said she was concerned for my health. My _health_, as if I were a fragile old man." Erik's mouth curled in a snarl. "She does not know how I have managed to walk past Death himself without drawing attention."

"Of course she does not know," Nadir said simply. "That is why she is worried."

The word stopped Erik in his tracks. "Worried?"

"Yes, worried." Nadir stepped up to the younger man and held up his thin wrist. "I have already expressed my concern over this form you have taken, Erik. She simply seems to share my opinions. You are not what you used to be."

"None of us are, daroga. Even I have been unable to escape the human habit of aging."

"You know what I mean," the Persian argued. "I have never seen you so weak... your body needs nourishment, for God's sake, not this poison you've been drowning yourself in."

Erik yanked his wrist away. "I am still alive."

Nadir snorted. "The first time I have ever heard you say so. Perhaps you are still too fascinated by death to resist its call. Does it beckon you again, Erik? Simple, unburdened death... an endless slumber, devoid of pain and suffering. Does the cold beauty of mortality still lurk in your mind? Tell me, do you still sleep in the coffin?"

Erik expected to feel a rush of righteous anger at the words, a quick stab of raging fury, but looking into the Persian's eyes, narrowed with criticism and disappointment, all he felt was a heavy weight settle in his chest, pressing on his heart.

"No," he whispered hoarsely.

"A step towards living," Nadir said with approval. "You see, my friend, I fear for you. Still." He smiled sadly. "Through it all, I fear for you. If you continue on with your habits, you will find yourself alone and half-mad again. It is a fate I do not wish to see you resign yourself to."

Erik remained silent, feeling like a reprimanded child.

"There is much to live for. I have been through hell too, do not forget." The Persian's expression darkened. "If you drive this woman and her child away, Erik, it will begin another cycle for you. And who knows where it will end this time? Another dark cellar to call your own? Another decade of angry solitude? You do not bear it as well as you would like to think. I know you do not."

Erik ran a hand along the edge of the mask, his fingertips pausing where porcelain met flesh.

"Tell the woman whatever you like," he said, swiftly turning and walking towards his room. "Rest well, daroga. Do as I do, and dream of Persia." His back straightened as he entered his room. "Whether you would like to or not."

* * *

Isabel folded her green dress - the one her mother had made her years ago - and carefully laid it in the trunk. She stood back and stared into the luggage, her eyes stinging with tears again.

_You cannot even fail with graceful indifference._

Sinking onto the bed, she buried her face in her hands, letting her terrified sorrow take hold of her. Crying as quietly as she could, she curled up on the bed, her head pounding, her stomach churning. Nine days she had lasted here, before her busybody ways had made an appearance, before she was finally seen for what she was: a spineless girl, masquerading as a capable adult.

_What do I tell Thomas?_ Their home near Cambridge had been sold, the majority of the funds from the sale going to Daniel. The only apparent option was going to Liverpool and staying with her husband in the small flat he rented. Cramped into the tight space, her life would revert back to what it had not been in many years: housewife, a woman suitable for doting on her son and husband.

She felt every moment of the independent pride she had experienced in the past few years vanish within her, leaving a lonely, sad heaviness in her stomach.

She shut her eyes tighter against the fresh wave of tears.

A knock at the door startled her and her stomach clenched unpleasantly at the sound. Forcing herself off the bed, she grabbed the shawl off the footboard and slung it around her shoulders. She walked to the door unsteadily and opened it, holding her head up high.

Mr. Khan stood there, an apologetic smile etched on his face.

"Mrs. Bauer, please pardon the intrusion."

Isabel tightened the shawl around herself and blinked in surprise. "Mr. Khan. May I help you?"

He peered at her face closely and she hastily wiped at the tears on her cheeks.

"His doing," he stated, shaking his head.

There was no need to reply.

"His threats are not often empty, Mrs. Bauer, but in this case, I believe they were." He smiled again, a kind curling of lips. "You and your son may remain here, if you wish."

She furrowed her brow. "But he told me..."

"Erik's emotions tend to get the better of him," the Persian said off-handedly. "He used to be quite able to control them, but of late, he is prone to simply spout off whatever is running through his head. An unfortunate habit, but one I am certain he will overcome once more, given time."

Isabel lifted a hand to her head and massaged her temple. "Mr. Khan, the man is enigmatical. I do not know what to make of him."

His smile widened. "Nor do I, and I have known him for fifteen years! Well, as much as one can know Erik," he added thoughtfully.

She let her mouth turn up in a small smile.

"He is a paradox, Mrs. Bauer. I do not claim to understand him, nor am I sure I want to. But I do know that he is in need now. Of patience, of help... certainly of help. I do hope you can provide it, despite his protests."

Isabel nodded silently. "I will do my best, sir."

"And that will be enough." he bowed. "Goodnight, Mrs. Bauer. I do hope he was not too hard on you during the confrontation."

She waved the comment away. "I survived."

He smiled once more and turned to go.

"Mr. Khan," she said impulsively, and he spun around, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes?"

She hesitated, dropping her hand to her nightshift's skirt and twisting the material in her fingers. "I just wanted to thank you for the attention you have been paying Thomas... it's difficult for him, having no man to look up to, what with my husband being so far away and..." she trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish for her inarticulate gratitude.

The Persian merely smiled his warm smile, though she noticed, in retrospect, as she was climbing into her bed and once again trying to ignore the thick heat in the air, that his eyes had lost their merriment in that moment... his mouth had smiled, but his piercing gaze had suddenly looked terribly, excruciatingly sad.

* * *

The morning sky was dark gray with clouds, the air still sticky with humidity. Isabel stopped kneading the dough in front of her to wipe her brow with the back of her hand, brushing a loose strand of hair back into place.

"I still don't trust this weather, Tom. I would prefer it if you stayed inside."

Sitting on the floor of the kitchen, an atlas spread before him, Thomas gave a pout. "I don't mind getting wet, Mama."

"Well, _I_ mind very much if you get stuck by lightening, dear. The horses will be there to play with after the storm passes."

"Mr. Khan said he didn't think it would rain anymore."

"Oh, did he?"

"He did," the Persian's voice broke in. Isabel spun around and smiled. Mr. Khan walked into the kitchen and peered out the window. "It looks threatening, but I believe the worst has passed."

"I see." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, if you say so." Though she was still wary of the dangerous weather, she felt it safe to put some faith in the man before her.

"Which is fortunate," Mr. Khan continued, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a letter, "as Erik has requested that we all go to town for some items." He offered Isabel the paper and she took it, unfolding it carefully and reading it over.

_Daroga,_

_I have business to attend to away from the house and must leave you to your own devices for the day. I trust when I come back, I shall find you in one piece. If not, I hold no responsibility. _

_Since you are so intent on Mrs. Bauer remaining a member of this household, kindly instruct her to go to town and order a new cloak for me - I left the worn one in my study, she may take it as reference for the tailor._

_I am also in need of reams of paper - do not bother with embossed stationery, it would only be a wasted expense. Kindly make sure the boy keeps away from it - he has the ridiculous habit of drawing obscure pictures on anything that stands still long enough._

_Speaking of which, if she takes that child with her, you should tag along, Nadir. Keep her company and perhaps you shall have have a chance to display your true powers as a protector of the weak and innocent, should a storm erupt._

_-Erik_

Isabel lowered the letter.

"He always was a sarcastic man," Mr. Khan said pleasantly.

She gave him an amused grin.

"Are you feeling up for a long, tedious journey, sir?"

He sighed, looking down at Thomas. "I should be used to them by now."

Three hours later found them in the village, the two adults chatting idly and the small boy trudging along behind them wearily.

"It certainly seems to have every convenience, considering its size," Mr. Khan remarked, eyeing the apothecary.

"Yes, it is quite impressive, really." Isabel stopped in front of the tailor's shop and drew a deep breath. "Here we are. Mr. Sanders'." She glanced at Thomas, who was frozen on the spot.

"Oh, no," he whispered, looking utterly tragic.

"I'm afraid so, darling."

Mr. Khan watched the exchange with polite amusement.

"We're familiar with Mr. Sanders," Isabel explained, gripping Thomas' hand and pulling him towards the door.

Mr. Sanders stood just inside the doorway, the expression on his face pure joy as soon as his eyes rested on Isabel.

"Mrs. Bauer! And the young master!" He bowed deeply and once again, Isabel felt certain, for just a moment, that he would tip over.

"Mr. Sanders," she said quickly, her voice drawing his head back to eye-level, "would it be possible for you to create a cloak in the likeness of this one?" She held out the ragged cape Mr. Bertrand had requested replaced, and Mr. Sanders took it gingerly. "Oh, certainly, madam, certainly... my, this is a lovely piece of work..." he brought the cloak closer to his face and examined it keenly. "Seamless work, simply magnificent." He tossed it over his shoulder and gave a jovial laugh. "A bit worse for the wear, certainly, but still, quite beautiful. I shall do my best to create its equal, Mrs. Bauer!"

She nodded politely. "I would be much obliged."

"Yes, yes. And how are you this fine day, Mr. Bauer?"

Thomas mutter a noncommittal response and stayed behind his mother, arms crossed and head down.

Isabel heard Mr. Sander's breath catch in his throat. "Hello, sir! May I help you?"

Mr. Khan turned from a rack of opera cloaks he had been casually rifling through. "Oh, no. I am accompanying them."

Mr. Sander's face fell.

"Mr. Sanders," Isabel said, "this is Mr. Nadir Khan. Mr. Khan, Timothy Sanders, our excellent tailor."

Mr. Sander's face flushed a deep crimson. "Mrs. Bauer is too generous with her praise, sir, but it is a pleasure to meet you! A pleasure indeed!" He held out his hand and connected it with Mr. Khans', shaking it fiercely.

Mr. Khan withdrew his hand and massaged it gently. "The pleasure is all mine, I am sure." He looked amused.

"Do you have an idea of when the cloak will be ready, Mr. Sanders?" Isabel asked, pulling the tailor's attention away from the Persian.

"Hmm?" Mr. Sanders looked at her blankly. "Oh! Give me a few days, ma'am. It'll be ready by Thursday, I'd wager."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Sanders." She smiled warmly and he returned the gesture, a ridiculous grin taking his lips.

"Always an honor doing business with you, Mrs. Bauer! Always an honor!" He waved merrily as they left, giving Thomas a poke between the shoulder blades as he passed.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Mr. Khan laughed. "He is certainly a character!"

Isabel groaned. "That he is. Very... boisterous."

"Indeed. Enthusiastic, at any rate."

"He said I have little chicken ankles," Thomas quipped, holding his mother's hand tightly.

"Did he? An odd observation to make..."

Isabel's smile flickered as she saw a familiar face emerge from the crowded street. "Miss Kinneston!"

Samantha Kinneston fought her way through the throng and smiled brightly at Isabel. "Mrs. Bauer! Hello!"

"How lovely to see you again!"

"A pity it had to be on so threatening a day," Samantha said drearily, casting her gaze to the dark skies. "I do hope it does not storm on your way home; four miles of rain is too much for any person to bear."

"I have seen worse," Isabel said, and she found that, looking at Samantha, so light and cheerful, she could not keep a smile off her face. "Miss Kinneston, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Nadir Khan."

Samantha shifted her gaze to Mr. Khan and curtseyed, a polite smile gracing her mouth.

"Mr. Khan, this is Samantha Kinneston."

Mr. Khan bowed briefly. "How do you do."

"Oh, are you foreign?" Samantha burst out with a look of sheer fascination. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth and blushed. "Do pardon me," she mumbled through her fingers. "I have an unfortunate tendency to make a fool of myself."

"Hardly," Mr. Khan replied politely. "You are very correct. I am Persian."

Samantha's eyes grew wide. "Is that _so?_ How interesting!"

"Mr. Khan is an acquaintance of Mr. Bertrand's. He is staying at the house for some time."

"Well, I am sure we will be seeing each again, in that case." Samantha peered behind Isabel. "Hello," she said to Thomas.

The boy looked alarmed and quickly turned his face away, clutching his mother's skirts.

"Darling," Isabel muttered, "don't be rude."

"Hello, ma'am!" Thomas squeaked out.

"My son, Thomas," Isabel said, shrugging helplessly. "He is a bit shy of strangers right now."

"Aren't we all," Samantha said seriously. "Why, I'm terrified of meeting new people. At this very moment, I am almost paralyzed with fear. But I cannot let that stop me." She looked at Thomas again and smiled.

The child blinked at her.

Isabel reached behind her and smoothed his hair. "Darling, really, you're a very silly boy."

Samantha giggled. "Most boys are. Many of them never grow out of it." She went pink again and stared at Mr. Khan. "Sorry, sir."

The Persian merely rose his eyebrows.

"I should be returning to the Foresters'," Samantha said, patting a canvas bag she was holding. "They will be expecting me soon. Have a lovely day, and hurry home! The sky is not friendly today!"

"You, as well, Miss Kinneston."

Samantha turned and walked back towards the street, her blonde hair whipping around in the wind. She turned once more and waved before being swallowed back into the crowd, her face disappearing into the mass of people around her.

* * *

_Chat's my favorite.  
Though the reviewers run a very close second.  
__Terpsichore314: I was editing a couple of problems from this chapter and saw your review, so I figured, hey, might as well fix the error. Thank you! _


	16. Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

Mr. Khan stopped in the middle of the road to reach into his pocket and withdraw a handkerchief that appeared to have been white at one point. Wiping his brow with it, he exhaled, peering down the long stretch of road before him wearily. "You make this trek often?"

"Oh, yes," Isabel said, lifting her skirts over a pile of horse droppings. "Every few days, at least." She set her mouth in an annoyed line. "Mr. Bertrand seems to take a perverse pleasure in requesting I venture into the village. His joy is increased considerably when Thomas accompanies me." She glanced over her shoulder at the boy, trudging slowly several yards behind her." Come along, darling. It's not far now."

"I'm tired."

"I'm sure you are, dear. You're doing very well."

"Very well indeed," Mr. Khan agreed.

They walked on in silence for several minutes, their footfalls padding along the dirt road quietly.

"Mr. Khan," Isabel said suddenly, gathering her nerve, "I am not normally one to pry, but... if I may be so bold as to inquire..." she cleared her throat, considering her words. Mr. Khan glanced at her curiously.

"Yes?"

"I know so little of Mr. Bertrand, sir, and you have known him a great many years... I was wondering if, perhaps, you could enlighten me." She stopped and turned to the Persian, facing him fully. "I would like very much to know more about him."

Mr. Khan's face fell sadly. "Oh, Mrs. Bauer," he said, folding his hands in front of him. "If only you knew what you were asking."

A bolt of dread shot through Isabel. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Khan shook his head. "Mrs. Bauer, you must understand. Erik's life has been difficult, as I am sure you can imagine." He held a hand up to his face and touched his right cheek, giving her a knowing look.

She swallowed hard and looked away. "Yes, the mask. Of course, I realize his is not a happy story, but perhaps if I knew something of his--"

"What's under it?"

Isabel and Mr. Khan whirled around simultaneously. Thomas stood behind them, blinking innocently.

"What?" The Persian asked, his tone wary.

"Mr. Bertrand's mask," Thomas said, kicking his foot against the ground. "What's behind it?"

"Thomas!" Isabel scolded. "That is none of your concern!"

"Your mother is right," Mr. Khan said, looking down at the boy. "And you would do well never to mention his mask to him, do you understand?"

"How come?" Thomas's forehead furrowed.

"Because it would be rude," Isabel snapped, feeling an irrational rage swell inside her. "Stay clear of him, Thomas, for God's sake."

Both Mr. Khan and Thomas stared at Isabel.

She sighed in exasperation. "Darling, _please_."

"Mr. Bertrand's mask is a source of great pain for him," Mr. Khan said to Thomas gently. "Bringing the subject up would only cause him grief."

"Oh," the boy said, dropping his gaze to the ground.

Isabel turned on her heel and strode on, her heart thumping. In her mind's eye, he was still there in the rain, exposed and vulnerable, and she was still watching him, concealed and guilty as sin. Her own cowardice infuriated her, even as she felt waves of relief at being spared the undoubtedly ghastly sight of whatever lay behind that porcelain. She had been too frightened by the idea of intrusion and invasion and guilt to look upon him. She had been too frightened.

She cursed herself, tugging at her skirt peevishly.

Mr. Khan sped up his pace and neared Isabel, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Tell me, Mrs. Bauer, how does Erik treat your son?"

Isabel looked at the Persian in surprise. "Treat him?"

"Yes. How does he interact with him?"

Isabel searched the man's dark eyes for a moment, a questioning look on her face. "He... well, he doesn't interact with him very much at all, really. But if they met more often, I have the feeling they wouldn't get along terribly well."

"No?" Mr. Khan looked pensive, his face tilted towards the sky. "Why do you think that is?"

Puzzled, Isabel shrugged. "Thomas can be somewhat trying, like most children of his age. Mr. Bertrand does not strike me as someone who would be taken with children, I suppose."

A ghost of a smile crossed the Persian's face. "Ah. Your first lesson about Erik, Mrs. Bauer: he is hardly ever what he seems."

Isabel sighed. "Really, Mr. Khan-"

"Nadir, please. It has been so long since anyone referred to me by my first name, I can hardly remember it."

"Nadir," she resumed, testing the name on her tongue, "Mr. Bertrand does not seem like _anything_. He is sarcastic and threatening and mysterious, but those are not what make a person." She struggled with her satchel, pulling it up her shoulder. "Often, after I speak to him, I am not sure whether the conversation was a dream or a reality." She knew she was becoming upset; dwelling had always made her so. But she finally found herself able to articulate her feelings on the subject of Erik Bertrand, and she took the opportunity gladly.

"His words are always... _pointedly_ chosen, as far as I can tell. He seems to have the distinct talent of knowing how to make the most impact with the least amount of speaking. It's unnerving, at times. And sometimes, I swear, he _tries_ to frighten me. I hate myself for it, but he makes me feel small... breakable, even, when he towers over me, snapping at whatever has irked him at the moment. And he is _everywhere. _I simply cannot be in the house without feeling his eyes upon me." She stopped on the road and held her hand to her mouth, suddenly embarrassed. "Do excuse me, sir. I do not know when to stop."

Mr. Khan - Nadir - chortled. "Greater vices are to be had, Mrs. Bauer."

"Isabel."

"Isabel."

"Still, I apologize. He is a friend of yours, and I have no right to speak ill of him."

The Persian laughed. "Believe me, madam, I have said much worse of him than you have spoken today. I am sure he has used his presence to intimidate you; it is a habit of his. As for his constant watching... yes. He does like to see all, and he can observe without being noticed. He is very adept at it. His stealth has aided him in his very survival. That is part of what he is, Isabel: a dangerous shadow, always lurking just out of your reach."

Somehow, Isabel was not comforted by the revelation.

* * *

Thomas collapsed onto the sofa in the parlor, releasing a long-suffering sigh. 

"Exhausted, darling?" Isabel asked, amused.

He grumbled in reply.

Placing her hands on her hips, Isabel surveyed the newly cleaned room and beamed. "It's passable, Tom. It really is. Can't do anything about those awful chairs, of course, but as it is, it will do." She tapped her lip thoughtfully. "Though this peach color really doesn't suit it very well... perhaps a nice blue would do. A light blue… sky-color. What do you think?"

She glanced at the child and smiled: he had curled into a ball on the sofa and was snoring softly, his hands folded and tucked under his head.

"Poor dear," she murmured, moving out of the room quietly. Pulling the door shut, she turned in the hallway and found herself at eye-level with a perfectly-folded black cravat tied around an impossibly pale throat.

Her hand flew to her stomach and she let out a shrill cry in her surprise.

"Really, Mrs. Bauer, your startled screeching rivals a banshee's wails."

Isabel shut her eyes and grabbed the doorknob behind her, steadying herself.

"Must you _always _slither around so quietly?" she seethed.

Mr. Bertrand's expression remained neutral. "You went to the village this morning?"

She nodded, staring down the hall over his shoulder.

"And Mr. Khan accompanied you?"

"Yes." She lifted her head, her hand still absently playing with the doorknob. "He is a kind man."

"He has been described as such," Mr. Bertrand said airily, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He wore a dark burgundy waistcoat today, the white lawn shirt beneath it sticking to his skin. She noticed a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, a single drop of moisture crawling down the side of his face. She shifted her gaze to his dark eyes and realized that he was watching her silently.

She crossed her arms. "Mr. Bertrand, I would like to sincerely apologize for my… prying. It was insolent and uncouth. I merely…" she stopped herself, setting her mouth in a firm line. "Anyway, I apologize. And I thank you for going back on your decision to release me from employment."

Mr. Bertrand stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "I do not _go back_ on my decisions, Mrs. Bauer. I am giving you a second chance to prove yourself worthy of the position due to... a lack of wisdom on my part, I am sure." He relaxed his shoulders, raising a hand and running his fingers through his slicked hair. "You owe Mr. Khan a great deal… for whatever reason, he seems to have taken a liking to you, and this is a large part of why I have chosen to… why I have decided to allow you to remain."

"Then he has my gratitude."

"He deserves it. A kind man…" he trailed off, those blue-green eyes fixed on the door behind her, a long, thin finger pressed to his chin thoughtfully. He snapped his gaze back to her and his face darkened. "I am sure I do not need to tell you what habits of yours must change, Mrs. Bauer. They must be obvious by now."

"Yes, sir."

He paused, staring at her. Suddenly feeling self-conscious in the silence, she cast her eyes down and smoothed her skirt. "Did you take care of the business you went to attend to this morning, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Yes. It is next to the stable."

Casting her one more long glance, he turned and stalked off down the hall. He turned to the stairway and climbed it, his footsteps thudding above her head.

Curious, she walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, crossing to the window and peering out.

A small carriage sat beside the stable: a black, four-wheeled buggy that looked untouched.

* * *

The bed gave a loud groan as Erik shifted on it again, lifting himself to rest against the headboard. It was storming out, an encore of the previous night. Thunder cracked, lightning struck. The heat was unbearable. He reached over the bed and picked up the book he had randomly selected from the library, a collection of Shakespearean sonnets. 

_Poetry. Bloody poetry will haunt me forever. _He really must stay away from that particular section of the library.

He flipped the book open, thumbing through it.

_In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes_

_For they in thee a thousand errors note..._

He snapped the book shut and flung it across the room.

_Bloody pretentious bastard. _

"If music be the food of love, play on," he recited drearily to empty room. The candle beside his bed flickered and he turned to stare at it, the bright flame dancing before him. He sneered at its unforgiving light, the flame bending and swaying with each breath he took. Its delicate flexibility.

The house was silent. Isabel and her son had retired as soon as dinner had been served. Nadir said there were many books that caught his interest in the library and had spent the remainder of the evening absorbed in a novel of some sort.

Erik still felt a surprised bolt run through him whenever he heard the Persian's voice. The very sound of it, the sight of Nadir's face, never failed to remind him of the years spent serving the shah… the intense, dry heat of the air, the villainies he had been forced to commit… the relief he had felt when he had discovered the joys of morphine.

His eyes flicked to his arm, studying the scars by the inside of his elbow… all healed over now, puckers of dark, twisted flesh amid the ivory-white skin. He ran a finger along the ragged skin, ironically amused at the idea of purposefully damaging flesh that had been perfect. Morphine had always helped him sleep through the scorching heat, the nightmares, the screaming in the streets as another treasonous rebel was executed… perhaps Nadir had brought some…

He shook his head at himself. The daroga had always hated Erik's dependence on the drug. He was not likely to be willing to aid him in renewing the habit, no matter how much Erik griped.

Still stroking the scars gently, he slipped from the bed and walked to where the thrown book lay. Bending over, he picked it up and opened it once more, turning the worn pages carefully.

_How can I then return in happy plight,_

_That am debarred the benefit of rest?_

_When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,_

_But day by night and night by day oppress'd,_

_And each, though enemies to either's reign,_

_Do in consent shake hands to torture me,_

_The one by toil, the other to complain_

_How far I toil, still farther off from thee._

_I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,_

_And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:_

_So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,_

_When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even._

_But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,_

_And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger._

Standing in the middle of the dark room, he glanced out the window at the bright flash of lightning streaking across the night sky.

A loud rap at the door snapped his attention away from the illuminating storm. He strode across the room and yanked the door open. He stared for a moment, then let a scowl take his features.

"Mrs. Bauer," he said coldly, eyeing the woman before him, "I expect you to have a very good reason for standing at my door at this hour of the night."

Isabel's arms were folded across her stomach, her nightshift damp and clinging to her form. A gray shawl was pulled around her shoulders and her hair was down, falling around her face in messy strands. Gripping the doorknob tightly, he leaned closer, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"

"The horse, sir," she said in a low voice. She was shaking, her face etched with discomfort. The nightshift clung to her leg tightly and he saw a long strip of thigh showing through the wet material. Raising his eyes back to hers quickly, he took a step back.

"The horse?"

"It escaped. It's running around the orchard, half-scared to death. I tried to lead it back into the stable, but..." she trailed off, shrugging. Pulling the shawl tighter around herself, she shuddered deeply, goosebumps crawling up her arms.

He looked at her disbelievingly. "How can you possibly be cold?"

She stared. "Excuse me?"

Erik passed her silently, rolling his sleeves up and thumping down the stairs. "Which horse is it, Mrs. Bauer?"

"I don't know," she said, following behind him closely.

"You don't _know?_"

"You gave them ridiculous names that are impossible to remember," she said shortly. "It's the dapple one."

"Loki, Mrs. Bauer. His name is Loki."

"Loki, then. I spent almost twenty minutes trying to round him up, but he simply flees whenever he saw me."

Entering the kitchen, Erik walked to the door and swung it open as a loud clap of thunder exploded overhead.

"There is no need for you to be here, Mrs. Bauer," he called over his shoulder, wincing as the rain struck his skin.

"You may need me, sir," she said stubbornly, and he paused in the storm, turning to look at her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, the shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her nightshift was still touching her skin, damply wrapping itself around her legs in a messy tangle. Her eyes were narrowed with a hint of annoyance and her mouth... her mouth was pursued, set in lines of determination, something he had never seen on the lips of that mouth's twin. Christine had only looked at him defiantly once: after the kiss, after she had made her decision. After she felt she had finally proven herself more than a child.

He snapped his eyes away from her and walked further into the yard. "As you wish."

Approaching the orchard, he slowed his pace, searching for sudden movement among the trees. The wind whipped through the branches and he ducked to avoid being hit by a flailing tree limb, muttering a curse to himself. He heard Isabel near him, her soft footsteps moving slowly.

"Sir, I really do think we should dress more appropriately for this particular—"

"Stay back," he hissed.

She stopped.

A flash of lightning streaked the sky and in the moment of light, he saw the dapple gelding near him, trembling behind a tree. Thunder roared overhead and the gelding fled, kicking its rear legs up violently in its panic.

"Be still!" Erik barked, ignoring Isabel's snort of amusement behind him. The horse stopped in its frightened run and stood, shaking, staring at Erik with its large, scared eyes.

An old Russian lullaby sprang to Erik's mind, a soothing tune he used to sing to Reza on the nights when the child's pain prevented sleep.

"_Bai, bai, bai, bai_," he sang softly. "_Báyu, Detusku mayú..._" He stood beside the horse and gently ran a hand along its neck. "_Shta na górki, na goryé, o visyénnei, o poryé..._"

Loki took a step towards Erik, nuzzling the hand stroking his nose.

They walked back slowly, Erik's voice ringing through the storm, calming the animal. The horse followed him closely, trotting contently, and Isabel watched the entire procedure with one brow arched.

"The door, Mrs. Bauer," Erik said softly.

Isabel didn't move.

"Mrs. Bauer!"

She stood by the stable, gazing at him with a look of comprehension on her face, as if a great mystery had been revealed and the answer laid before her.

He stroked the horse's neck once more and slid the stable door open himself, grunting irritably. Ushering the gelding in gently, he turned to face Isabel, who was now holding herself tightly and shivering.

"What is it?" he snapped.

She stared at him for a moment, streams of water running down her dark hair and dripping onto her nightshift, now soaking and stuck to her skin.

"Your voice," she said, suddenly looking shy.

She strode past him into the stable and bent, clumsily gathering some loose hay and throwing it into Loki's pen. She turned and wiped her hands on her nightshift, dark marks streaking across the white material.

"I'll return to bed, sir." She looked embarrassed and awkward, slipping the shawl down to cover as much of her wet shift as possible. She glanced towards the door anxiously, edging towards it, pulling the shift away from her legs and shaking it slightly in a desperate attempt to dry it.

"What of it?" he asked, wiping his wet brow with the back of his hand. The air was mercifully cool in the stable and he slid his eyes shut, basking in the comforting chill.

"What of what, sir?" Isabel's voice wavered, her discomfort obvious.

"My voice. What of it?"

"Oh." He opened his eyes and made out her form in the darkness, tall and shaking. The wind howled outside the open door and it whipped her hair around her face, tangling the tresses horribly. Lightning flashed outside and lit her from behind for a moment… a nervous silhouette in a wet dress, arms wrapped around herself protectively.

"I've just never heard you sing before, sir."

He looked at her, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And what did you think of my voice, Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel snapped her gaze back to him and, to his surprise, returned the slight smile he was wearing.

"Oh, I'm sure you know, Mr. Bertrand."

She bowed briefly, gathering her skirts, and ducked out the door, running towards the house through the thick sheets of rain.

It wasn't until the loud roar of thunder overhead died down that Erik realized he was laughing.

* * *

_Of course, thanks to the beta, Chat, for all the help and support and general coolness.  
This chapter's dedicated to Banana71588, the author of the brill _A Match Made in Persia_, 'cause she flatters me outrageously.  
I quoted Shakespeare. I did. I'm not ashamed. I didn't ask permission, either. So there.  
The reviews are helpful, as always, and the feedback is wonderful, be it good or bad.  
There are a couple of loose ends in this chapter that will be resolved in the next installment, which won't be for a little while. I'm going to new York and won't be back until next week. Just a heads up.  
I am seeing Phantom while I'm there, though. Hugh Panaro ahoy!  
Since this is already the Longest Author's Note In the History of the World, I may as well add that I don't own Phantom and stuff. But you already knew that. I hope.  
_


	17. Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

The weather cooled over the next few days, crisp breezes chilling the sticky air.

Mr. Bertrand's disposition had improved slightly; the favorable change in the weather seemed to agree with him, although Isabel suspected that he still wasn't sleeping. His complexion had darkened somewhat from the hours he has spent outdoors, but the deep circle under his visible eye remained, giving him a perpetual tired look. When she had asked him if he had been getting any rest, he had snapped that it was bad enough to have his eating habits monitored; did she need to keep such an irritatingly close eye on his sleeping habits, as well?

"Of course not, sir," she had replied, tight-lipped. He was seated at the table in the parlor, picking at the breakfast of eggs and fried, grated potatoes she had brought him. Looking up from his plate, he shot her an annoyed look and she took a step back in the doorway, raising her brow in question.

"Mrs. Bauer…"

"Yes?"

"For the last time, do not use that disingenuous, insipid word in reference to me again."

"Excuse me. _Mr. Bertrand._"

She had silently marveled at his ability to sneer and chew at the same time.

Nadir took Mr. Bertrand's mood swings in stride.

"His clever retorts and angry glares are impressive, to be sure," he said one day over a cup of tea he insisted Isabel join him in. "But they are quite harmless. If you truly anger him, however…" he sighed as he lifted the teacup to his lips, "run."

Isabel hadn't bothered asking him to elaborate. She knew what his answer would be: a mysterious smile, a shake of the head. Not that she particularly wanted to know his meaning. She was resigning herself to considering her employer a human-like enigma, and learning his secrets would risk destroying the simplistic illusion.

Now she stood once again in the village, smiling and nodded politely to Mr. Sanders, who was raving about the sublime color of the clouds on that particular day.

"…been seeing them almost every day of my life, of course, like most people, but never like this! Such a pristine white, Mrs. Bauer, such a pristine white! And as fluffy and touchable as rabbits! Or mice. Some such rodent, in any case."

"Yes, Mr. Sanders, it is a lovely day indeed. I was wondering, sir, about that cloak I-"

"And you, if I may be so bold, Mrs. Bauer," - (Isabel felt her stomach clench) - "are looking as stunning as the summer sunset itself."

Isabel swallowed a groan and widened her smile. "Mr. Sanders, you are too free with your praise. I hardly deserve such a charming compliment."

Mr. Sanders beamed.

"But as I was saying…"

He looked at her blankly, that painfully delighted smile still on his face.

She lifted an eyebrow. "The cloak?"

"Oh! Of course!" He ran into the back and reemerged almost immediately, holding out the item in his hands like a holy offering. Isabel took the cape and shook it out, ignoring the look of horror on Mr. Sanders' face as his careful folding was destroyed in a matter of seconds.

Holding the cloak at arm's length, she studied it over the tailor's quiet whimpers of displeasure.

The cape was black wool, the softest and finest she has ever felt. It was lined with dark cold silk, embroidered with black vines creeping around _fleurs-de-lis_. It was heavier and longer than she had expected. At least three inches sat pooled on the floor while she struggled to keep it held up. Drawing it towards herself, she carefully rolled it up and tucked it under her arm.

"It's perfect, Mr. Sanders. As usual."

His eyes welled.

"Are you well?" she asked, suddenly anxious.

"Never better, I assure you!" He dabbed at his eyes. "Will that be all today, ma'am?"

"Yes. Thank you." She turned, casting the tailor one last perplexed look over her shoulder.

Thomas sat in the buggy outside, looking bored.

"Alright, Tom, I'm done," Isabel said as she climbed in beside him.

"Home?"

"Yes, darling. Home. Unless you'd like to run in and say hello to Mr. Sanders."

Slumping in his seat, Thomas crossed his arms and set this jaw in his usual sign of his annoyance.

Ruffling his hair, she took the reins and prepared to begin the trek back when she froze her movements.

"Did I pay him?"

"What?"

She let her back fall against the seat and furrowed her brow in thought. "Mr. Sanders. It took me an age to get him off the subject of clouds and onto the subject of cloaks. I was so distracted, I do believe I forgot to pay him."

"I'm sure he won't mind if you're a little late, Mama. Just go back and tell him you're sorry."

Isabel glanced at the shop out of the corner of her eye and saw Mr. Sanders blowing his nose into a handkerchief through the window. "I'd rather not."

"Why?"

"Do you remember how you told me you didn't like Mr. Sanders?"

Thomas nodded.

"Well, I feel the same way now."

The boy looked at his mother with sorrowful eyes. "Did he say you have chicken ankles too, Mama?" he asked sympathetically.

She smiled. "No, darling. I just don't like being around him. Very much like you don't like being around Mr. Bertrand."

Thomas straightened at the man's name. "Oh."

"I'll have to come back into town soon, anyway," she reasoned. "I'll pay him then. I just don't think I would be able to stand one more of his ridiculous observations right now."

Thomas took the reins from his mother and jerked them up and down, clucking his tongue. Loki and Bellerophon pulled the buggy forward and Isabel slid down her seat, letting out a startled shriek.

Thomas looked at his mother and smiled. "We need to get home, Mama," he said, handing her the reins. "Maybe Mr. Bertrand is always cross because he has no cloak."

Isabel laughed. "Let's hope so, dearest. I do hope so."

* * *

"…aunt in Paris, but my parents never saw a reason to send me. I always was a tad bitter about that." Samantha Kinneston's voice drifted into the hallway as Isabel and Thomas entered the house.

Massaging her neck, Isabel walked towards the sounds coming from the parlor.

"One of the better cities in Europe, I think," Nadir's accented voice responded. "Though I do have a certain fondness for Vienna, particularly in the winter."

"Is Paris where you met Mr. Bertrand?"

A pause.

"In a way."

Isabel stepped into the room and looked around quizzically. Samantha sat on a wooden chair beside the table, her hands folded in her lap. Across from her was Nadir, seated at the table with an amused smile on his face.

"Ah, Isabel." He stood. "How was your trip to town?"

"Very good," she replied, awkwardly lingering in the doorway.

Samantha's head snapped towards Isabel. "Mrs. Bauer!" She rose and smiled her pretty smile.

"Ms. Kinneston! This is an unexpected pleasure." She didn't realize how pleased she was to see the younger woman until the words left her mouth.

"Oh, do forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Bauer, but it's _such_ a lovely day out and I miss this home so much." Her smile turned apologetic and she shrugged. "I confess, I have yet to perfect the art of maturity. I always follow my impulses. I've had reason enough to stop, but I simply cannot seem to."

"Well, I'm glad you did. It is truly a delight to see you again." Isabel looked at Nadir. "Where is Mr. Bertrand?"

"In his study," the Persian replied. "He has cooped himself up there since this morning."

"I see." She turned at the sound of footsteps behind her.

Thomas stood in the hallway, gazing through the open door at the faces in the parlor.

"Dearest, you remember Ms. Kinneston."

Thomas's eyes fell to the floor and he smiled shyly, ducking behind his mother.

"Hello, Thomas," Samantha said in a kind voice.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he replied quietly, peeking out from his hiding place.

Nadir cleared his throat. "Thomas, perhaps now would be a good time to go over the countries of Africa. You asked me to point them out to you on the atlas, did you not?"

Thomas nodded silently. Nadir approached him and patted his back, heading into the hallway and towards the library, the boy following closely behind.

Samantha drew near Isabel, wringing her hands. "My sudden appearance really is beyond rude, I know, but as I said, I simply couldn't find it in myself to resist the-"

"Really, Ms. Kinneston, it's a lovely thought. You said you used to walk these gardens when you were younger, correct?"

Samantha nodded.

"Then we shall take a turn in them now. Come. Mr. Bertrand is too occupied with whatever has caught his interest to notice if I take a few moments for myself." She led Samantha down the hallway and into the kitchen, opening the backdoor for her and slipping out herself.

Samantha's hand flew to her mouth as her eyes watered. "Oh, excuse me. But it's been so long since I saw this place… have you become acquainted with it, yet?"

"The orchard? Not particularly. I haven't had time to take a tour of the grounds."

Samantha paused in the yard and stared at the stable. "Unless my memory is failing, I have never seen this before."

Isabel smiled. "Yes, Mr. Bertrand built it several days ago. For the horses."

"He has horses?"

"Not at the time, he didn't. He has acquired two now, and we use them for trips to town."

"Oh, how lovely!" Samantha approached the stable and slid the door open, peering inside. "How good of him to save you all those miles on foot. He must be a kind man indeed."

"'Kind' is not a word I would use," Isabel said dryly. "'Begrudgingly merciful' may be more appropriate."

Samantha laughed. "He sounds like a true gentleman."

"My son left the back door ajar one day," Isabel sighed, pointing to the back of the stable, "and one of the geldings managed to jump the pen and escape." She shuddered as she remembered the exchange between her employer and herself the day after Loki had wandered the orchard.

_"Why was he in the stable in the first place?"_

_"Please, sir, you must understand. Thomas has always had a great weakness for animals, and having horses so near him, it would be simply unbearable to be unable to spend some time with them. He used the back door to avoid being seen, in case you would be upset."_

_"I _am_ upset, Mrs. Bauer. That foolish child nearly lost me a gelding, all for the sake of a few moments of frivolous entertainment. What did I tell you the first time I met you, Mrs. Bauer?"_

_Isabel looked away, embarrassed. "To keep Thomas away from you."_

_"And why have you not made more of an effort to do so?"_

_"It was an accident," she snapped. "He feels horrible already. He begged me to apologize to you as much as possible. He is terrified that you're angry with him."_

_Mr. Bertrand looked Isabel in the eye. "If he crosses me in such a manner one more time," he said calmly, "you will both regret it very much indeed." _

"Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel turned her head to Samantha, standing in the doorway of the stable and staring at Isabel with a perplexed expression.

"Pardon me," Isabel said, smiling distractedly. "Shall we move on to the orchard?"

The cherry trees had shed their blossoms and were now sprouting green fruit, tiny, hard orbs that would soon turn bright red and sweet. The thought warmed Isabel, and she reached up and brushed a branch tenderly.

Samantha nodded towards the lake. "I used to sit here for hours when I was a child. It was always so peaceful… the perfect spot to reflect." She shook her head. "The Foresters were very lenient with my free time when I was younger. Now that my parents have passed on, many of the responsibilities fall to me. I scarcely have a spare moment to catch my breath, much less visit the haunts of my youth."

Isabel drew near the lake and sat unceremoniously on the ground, tucking her legs under her. "Yes, I can relate. My husband and I worked for the Northings in Devonshire for many years. They were unrelenting in their demands, as I recall. I was forever performing menial tasks… polishing silver that already shone, beating rugs that were clean. Mrs. Northing was particularly fond of having us clean the draperies twice a week."

Samantha seated herself beside Isabel and folded her hands in her lap. "Is your husband here?"

Isabel shook her head. "He is in Liverpool, working as coal porter with his brother."

"Oh." Samantha fidgeted, picking absently at her skirt. "It must be very difficult, being so far from him. Raising your son alone."

"At times," Isabel said quietly. "But we all manage. My husband has always held a deep love for the sea, an affection I'm afraid I never shared. It is better that he be so close to something he finds such pleasure in."

"But to be removed from his wife and son?" Samantha looked out over the lake and sighed. "I am sure you all suffer, if only a little."

"Well, perhaps. It has been several years since we were all together; I suppose we have simply become used to the arrangement." Isabel cleared her throat. "Anyway, we have adjusted to this new situation quite well, given the circumstances."

"Circumstances?"

"Mr. Bertrand is not the easiest man to work for," Isabel said bluntly. She felt at ease with this young woman, a kinship towards another member of working-class society. _A comrade._She smiled.

"I am curious about the man," Samantha said slyly, glancing at the house behind her.

"As am I."

"Oh, dear. Does he not converse with servants?" Samantha's pretty face took on a sour expression. "Puts on airs? I do so loathe those types of people. I am thoroughly tired of being treated like a farm animal simply because I do not waltz around in furs and silks."

Isabel laughed. "I understand. But no, he doesn't treat me ill, exactly. He keeps to himself, mostly. A very strange man, to say the least."

"Did you come with him here from his former home?"

"Oh, goodness, no. I only started a few weeks ago."

Samantha looked surprised. "My, what it would be like to have known more than one house." A sad look flicked across her face. "I do fear I shall live and die at the Foresters' home." She brightened. "But they pay me well, and I have a roof over my head."

"You have an admirable outlook on life, Ms. Kinneston."

"Samantha, please. Such formalities are almost suffocating, don't you think?"

Isabel grinned. "I do."

"And what of Mr. Khan? He seems a good-natured fellow. Has he been here long?"

"No, he arrived unannounced just a few days ago. He is pleasant company, though. And he seems to have taken a liking to Thomas." Isabel's smile dimmed. "Which is more than I can say for Mr. Bertrand."

"If I may say so, Isabel, you don't sound very fond of your employer."

Isabel looked over at Samantha and saw the young woman's face set in good humor, her eyes peering into Isabel's intently.

"He is not the easiest man to get along with," Isabel said delicately. "I find his sense of humor to be lacking, and when it does appear, it is often biting and sarcastic. He despises my son. He does not take care of himself." She groaned. "There are times when I feel as if I am working for a petulant child."

Samantha remained silent. Isabel turned to face her and saw the young woman staring in the direction of the house, her mouth slightly agape. Whipping her head around, Isabel saw Mr. Bertrand striding towards them, dressed in his usual immaculate attire, burgundy waistcoat contrasting perfectly off the white lawn shirt he wore beneath. Trousers Isabel had pressed earlier in the day covered his legs, and his black leather shoes gleamed in the sunlight with each step he took. Her eyes rose to his face and she jerked back, startled.

The mask adorning the right side of his face was black; worn leather molded to fit the form of his face as well as the white porcelain had.

"Mrs. Bauer," he said crisply as he drew near. He thrust out a hand holding a sheet of paper, the breeze making it flutter in his grasp.

Standing carefully, she shook out her skits and plucked the paper from his hand, skimming it. "Onions? Dried mint? Spinach?" She looked at him curiously.

"Items from the market. I believe there is a hothouse in town; they should be able to provide most of the out-of-season requests."

"What are they for, Mr. Bertrand?"

"A Persian meal for Mr. Khan," Mr. Bertrand replied, straightening his posture as he glanced at Samantha, still sitting quietly.

"Of course. A thoughtful gesture, if I may say so." Isabel's mouth twitched into a small smile. "Tastes native to his tongue."

"Indeed."

Samantha stood slowly, casting her head down.

"Mr. Bertrand," Isabel said, indicating the woman behind her. "Miss Samantha Kinneston. She stopped by for a brief visit. She's familiar with this property. Her employers were acquaintances of the Churchman's." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to speak so quickly.

Erik looked at her disinterestedly. "I see."

Samantha curtseyed. "Sir."

Isabel waved towards Mr. Bertrand. "Mr. Erik Bertrand, master of the house."

Mr. Bertrand's mouth set in an annoyed line. "A true pleasure, madam," he said, a trace of sarcasm coloring his tone. He turned his gaze back to Isabel. "I would like the items to be gathered by tomorrow evening and the meal prepared no later than the day after. The recipes will be left on the kitchen table this evening and you will pay attention to each instruction explicitly. I will not have a shoddy dinner served to my guest."

Isabel tore her eyes away from the creased leather mask and met his gaze. "Of course, sir." She bit her tongue at the word. _Damn._

Mr. Bertrand shot her a dark glare. He nodded stiffly to Samantha and turned, walking back through the orchard. Isabel watched his retreating back, sighing deeply.

"And that," she said softly, "is Mr. Bertrand."

"I was right."

Isabel looked at Samantha. "Pardon?"

Samantha grinned. "He _is_ handsome."

* * *

_Mad-love gush to Chat, 'cause she's just so damn cool.  
A dedication to Mandy the O, the creator of one of the best pieces of fiction on the web, An Eternity of This. We're proud of you, Mads.  
The reviews make me well up. I adore you.  
On a side-note, Hugh Panaro is, um, a really, really good Phantom. I'm still recovering._


	18. Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

The dinner Isabel prepared in honor of Nadir went over tolerably, if not particularly well. The _nargesi__ esfanaaj, _a dish of spinach and egg, had overcooked. The _aash__-e aab leemoo_, a thick beef soup, was too salty. The dessert, _halva_, was the only acceptable course, according to Mr. Bertrand. Nadir, however, had praised Isabel's efforts and expressed gratitude to both her and Mr. Bertrand for the thoughtful meal.

"My mother used to prepare _nargesi__ esfanaaj_ when I was a child," he mused later in the evening as Isabel served tea to him and Mr. Bertrand in the library. "I haven't had a meal so satisfying in many years."

Mr. Bertrand glanced at Nadir and a shadow of a smile crossed his mouth before he returned his attention to the book in his hands.

She was becoming preoccupied with that smile, that faint curling of lips that happened so rarely. The few men she had known in her life - Daniel, her father, her brother - had all smiled easily, mouths turning up at the slightest encouragement. Mr. Bertrand's lips did not seem to form the shape naturally; his smile looked somewhat awkward and unsure, as if he lacked the confidence to display it fully.

The shyness in the gesture struck her, and as she looked at his fleeting, pleased expression, she saw, for a moment, what Mr. Bertrand must have looked like as a child.

Earlier in the day, Mr. Sanders had accepted the delayed payment magnanimously, twittering on about the "divine honesty of some people. Just divine." The man's unabashed infatuation with her irked Isabel, and she found herself more annoyed than uncomfortable with him.

Of course, her irritation was bubbling quite close to the surface as of late. A by-product, she imagine, of spending a substantial amount of time around Mr. Bertrand.

Nadir coughed, drawing her back into the present.

"If I may be so bold as to say, Isabel," he said, eyeing the plate of scones on the tray in front of him, "these pastries of yours would be welcome at every meal."

Isabel smiled. "Thank you, Nadir. It's my mother's recipe."

"How touching," Mr. Bertrand murmured from behind his book.

Nadir glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the scones. "Behave yourself."

Mr. Bertrand turned a page in reply.

Isabel clasped her hands together in front of her. "If you'll excuse me, I should tend to my son before bed."

"Certainly," Nadir said lightly, carefully selecting a pastry and popping it into his mouth. "Oh, Thomas asked me to give him this book if I managed to find it." He bent over the side of the chair he was seated on and picked up a small volume, holding it out to Isabel. She took it from him and looked at the cover.

"_The Surnames of Europe and Their Meanings_," she said, reading the title aloud.

"Indeed. We somehow veered onto the subject of etymology one day, and the meanings of names was brought into the conversation. He was quite interested to know what his name means, and I told him I believed I had seen a book on the subject in the library."

"Thank you." She hugged the book to her chest. "He will be most appreciative." She gave a brief curtsey and walked into the hallway, gently pulling the door shut behind her.

She stepped forward and stopped beside an oil lamp on the wall, flipping the book open. She felt a bit silly, searching through a book in the darkness, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Finding the _B_s, she scanned the page carefully until she landed on what she was looking for.

**Bauer**

_Surname origin: German_

_From the German word _bure_ or _bur_, meaning farmer or peasant._

She snorted. "How appropriate." Glancing at the dark hallway behind her, she turned the page and quickly searched out another name. She bit her lip as her eyes rested on it.

**Bertrand**

_Surname origin: French, Italian_

_From the medieval French name "Bertram", meaning bright raven._

She closed the book and leaned against the wall, studying the shadows she was casting from the lamp beside her.

_Bright raven._

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I suppose that's right."

Though she didn't know why, the thought made her smile.

* * *

"I merely find it inappropriate, Nadir." Erik placed the book he was holding on the table beside him, stretching out on his chair. "It suggests a level of intimacy that is… unseemly."

Nadir snorted. "I never took you for one to be concerned with the frivolous rules of society, Erik."

"I am not, but at the end of the day, daroga, she is the hired help and should be treated as such."

"_You_ make certain that she is treated like a workhorse, Erik._ I_ prefer to show some respect. It can't be easy, you know, spending all her time taking care of you."

Erik set his jaw. "She does not _take care of me_, Nadir. She wipes the cobwebs from the corners and prepares meals that she complains I do not eat. That is the extent of her services."

"If that is your opinion, I feel sorry for you. As it is, I have asked that she call me by my given name, and she will continue to do so until I ask her to stop. Which, before you ask, will not happen anytime soon."

"Very well," Erik grunted.

"Very well indeed." Nadir opened his book and flipped through a few pages absently. "I am sure you will scoff at this suggestion, Erik, but I have been thinking… perhaps it is time for you to visit the town that you insist on sending Isabel to every five minutes."

Erik's eyes slowly rose to meet Nadir's. "I beg your pardon?"

"Working on a stable is all well and good," Nadir said quickly, grabbing another scone and poising it in front of his mouth, "but you need to socialize more."

"I need to… _socialize more_?"

"Yes, you do." The Persian heaved a heavy sigh, stuffing the scone in his mouth and chewing furiously. "You have withdrawn into yourself so much in the past few years," he said thickly through the pastry. "If you do not practice your social skills, I fear they will disappear forever."

"How arrogant you have become, Nadir. Dispensing advice to me like candy to a child." Erik stood from his chair. "I will not be told what is best for me by a man who—"

"Who sacrificed a great deal to keep you from harm's way, if you'll recall." Nadir brushed some crumbs off his trousers and sat back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers and peering at Erik.

Erik stared at him, a dead weight growing in his stomach. "You feel that I owe you something."

"Do not make such statements of opinion and try to pass them off as fact. I do not feel you owe me anything; I was simply reminding that I deserve your respect."

"You have my respect."

"I am afraid that your good opinion tends to waver somewhat, Erik. Take Isabel, for example—"

Erik groaned. "Must the conversation always return to that woman?"

"In this case, yes, it must. You hired her, correct? You must have liked something about her – a rare occurrence indeed, given your general disdain for all human beings – and yet you continue to speak of her in a most distasteful manner, and treat her like an ignorant servant who is beyond contempt. Why the change? If you were once fond of her – indeed, as fond as you can be of another person – why do you not display some pleasure in her company now?"

"I did not hire her for her company, Nadir. I hired her to clean this shack out from to bottom so that the rats did not eat me alive."

"Your witty retorts will not save you from answering the question, my friend."

Erik sank back into his chair and let his head fall back, gazing at the dark ceiling. "Are you asking me why I hired her?"

"I suppose in a way, yes."

"She was the only response to the advertisement," Erik said simply.

Nadir shook his head. "I am too well-acquainted with your need for perfection to accept that answer."

"You always did have the habit of searching for truths that did not exist. She presented herself in such a manner that I felt she was responsible enough for the position. That is all."

Nadir raised an eyebrow.

"Damn it, daroga!" Erik flew up from his chair and slammed a fist against the bookcase near him, shaking volumes from the shelves to the floor. "There is no secrecy between us now! What do you wish to hear me say? That there was a touch of trust in her eyes I could plainly see? Yes, there was, I confess. There was something intriguing about her that I could not ignore." He glanced at Nadir. "Her husband is across the country, you know. There is much she has not told me, I am sure. I cannot help but wonder why they are so far from each other. Why a father, who loves his child, could be so far from his own son."

"You are concerned for their marriage?"

"I am wary of troublesome marriages," Erik snapped. "The last thing I need is a battered wife to take refuge in my home under the guise of employment."

"I do not think Isabel is battered, Erik. And even if she were—"

"She is her husband's property." Erik finished dryly. "A possession to be treated as he sees fit. Yes, daroga, I am very familiar with the customs of your native land."

Nadir was quiet a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Erik," he said at length, "I fear I have a goal I wish to reach this evening." He paused, gazing at the masked man. "I would like to speak to you about the child."

Erik shook his head. "There is nothing to say."

"But there is." The Persian breathed deeply. "I am only too aware of the fact that the boy is not far from what Reza's age was… when… when he…"

"Yes," Erik said quietly. "What is your point?"

"Only… only that I do not understand why you treat Thomas so harshly when you were so lenient with my own boy. The child is scared to death of you, yet you remain unyielding." His gaze dropped to the bookshelf beside him, studying it intently. "You were always so kind to Reza, Erik. You were the only thing that gave him joy during those last weeks… I have borne witness to your ability to show gentle caring, yet you withhold it from… everything, now. Surely you would not allow the… happenings of that night affect you so permanently."

"That night ended a great many things," Erik quietly. "As for the boy, I will admit that he is not without certain amusing charms, but on the whole, he is as disrespectful and irritating as his mother."

Nadir scoffed. "Isabel is many things, Erik, but I hardly thing 'irritating' is appropriate."

"She is meddling."

"Ah, yes. Meddling can be so tiresome, can it not,_ Opera Ghost?"_

Erik shot Nadir a dark look. "Your humor is too trying, daroga. Perhaps it would be best if you went to bed."

"You have not sufficiently answered my question."

"Nor do I intend to. I do not need to justify anything to you, Nadir, and you would do well to remember that while you are in my home."

He left the room swiftly, slamming the door as he exited. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ignored the thundering pulse in his ears and entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him.

* * *

Isabel suppressed a groan as her son held out his mangled shoe. The outsole was peeling away, muddied, ripped leather being held together by tired stitching.

"Why didn't you tell me about this the last time we were in town?"

"I thought I could fix it," Thomas said grumpily, dropping the shoe to the floor.

"How?"

"Flour paste."

Isabel shut her eyes tightly, resisting the urge to collapse helplessly to the floor. "You tried to adhere the sole back to the body with _flour paste_?"

"It would have worked, too!" The boy shuffled his bare feet, appearing uncomfortable. "But Mr. Khan saw me doing it and told me I was using too much water."

"Thomas," Isabel sighed, "may you one day have a son of your own. Then, perhaps, you will appreciate what you do to me."

"I'm sorry, Mama!" Thomas looked at his mother pleadingly. "I didn't mean to ruin them!"

"I know you didn't, dear." She let out another sigh. "I suppose this means another trip to town."

"At least we have Bellerophron and Loki, Mama."

"Thank God for small favors."

"Oh, I wouldn't call them small, Isabel." Nadir walked through the door of the kitchen and looked around, smiling. "Though perhaps slight compared to some work horses, they are still an impressive size."

"Good morning, sir," Isabel said, staring at the ruined shoe on the floor.

"Ah, yes," Nadir said wisely, peering down as well. "Thomas's experiment did not turn out as well as he had hoped, hmm?"

"Apparently not."

"I would assume, perhaps incorrectly, that there is a shoemaker in the village. I am sure he can be of service."

"Undoubtedly." She glanced at her son. "Who knows what he will charge for his services, though. And even with the carriage, it is a long ways off."

Nadir seated himself at the kitchen table, eyeing a loaf of bread cooling there. "I have it on good authority that Erik will be needing more items from the apothecary to apply to that truly horrific wound on his palm. Chances are he was planning on sending you into town anyway."

Isabel crossed her arms over her stomach abruptly. "Is it getting worse? The cut?"

"Oh, no. It seems to be healing quite well. He simply wants to be certain that it remains infection-free, and he is very insistent about doing things his own way." Nadir smiled. "As I am sure you have noticed."

Isabel made a non-committal noise in reply.

"I think," The Persian added, a sly grin taking his mouth, "that is it time for Mr. Bertrand to venture into civilization. Don't you agree?"

Isabel and Thomas stared at him blankly.

* * *

The ride to the village seemed longer than usual; even with Isabel and Thomas on the back bench and Mr. Bertrand and Nadir in the front, the air surrounding them was thick with tension. Mr. Bertrand's rigid posture was evidence to his displeasure, and Nadir was taking no pains to conceal the triumph he felt in convincing his friend to accompany them to town, which only increased Mr. Bertrand's sour mood.

Thomas had been completely silent during the trip. He had sat perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes cast down. The idea of going to town with Mr. Bertrand had not appealed to him, and he had begged to stay behind. Ever since Isabel had refused his desperate pleas, he had remained quiet and melancholy. Even Nadir's attempts to perk him up went unnoticed.

"You never made an effort to hide away in Persia," Nadir argued now, pausing to examine a crate of mushrooms at the market.

"Persia is not England," Mr. Bertrand replied snappishly. A dark fedora covered the masked side of his face, almost hiding the mask entirely. He had returned to the crisp white porcelain once more, and Isabel was slightly sad to see the black leather go. He had seemed more comfortable in it. At least he had smiled while wearing it.

"Your powers of observation are remarkable," the Persian said dryly, peering at a barrel of rum. His eyes traveled around the entire village easily, and Isabel couldn't help but feel that he was seeking something in particular out.

"The only reason I am here, Nadir, is to stop your infernal nagging. I am in no mood to deal with the petulant whining of a grown man."

"Are we in need of any food, Isabel?" Nadir asked, ignoring Mr. Bertrand.

"No, sir," she replied quietly. This trip did not suit her at all; ever since she had seated herself in the buggy, she had felt irritable and tired. She just wanted to get Thomas's new shoes ordered, stop at the apothecary and head home.

"Mrs. Bauer!"

Isabel felt her entire body stiffen as Mr. Sanders' voice reached her ears. She turned and saw him striding towards her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his enthusiasm.

"Mr. Sanders," she said, attempting a bright, cheery voice.

"A delight, as always! Whatever brings you to town again so soon?"

Isabel glanced at Mr. Bertrand's irked expression. "My Thomas needs some new shoes. And we need to stop by the apothecary," she added.

Mr. Sanders' forehead creased in lines of concern. "Are you ill, Mrs. Bauer?" He drew near her, placing a hand on her arm. "Are you quite well?"

"Perfectly well, I assure you," she replied, stepped back from the touch. "Mr. Bertrand needs some more herbs, that's all."

"Mr. Bertrand?" Mr. Sanders looked at her blankly.

"Oh, dear, how rude of me." She straightened and indicated Mr. Bertrand with a graceful wave of her hand. "Mr. Sanders, this is Mr. Erik Bertrand, my—"

"Mr. Bertrand!" Mr. Sanders cried, grabbing the masked man's bandaged hand and pumping it violently. "A friend of Mrs. Bauer's is a friend of mine, yes indeed!" Mr. Bertrand yanked his hand away, wiping it on his trousers and looking distinctly disgruntled.

Mr. Sanders seemed oblivious to the masked man's behavior and instead turned his head towards the Persian. "And Mr. Khan! What a joy to see you all on this glorious day!"

The four travelers turned their heads skywards, wearily eyeing the threatening clouds overhead.

"Mr. Sanders," Nadir said pleasantly, inclining his head in a bow. "How nice to see you again."

Mr. Bertrand shot Nadir a puzzled look, now massaging his palm gently.

"Mr. Sanders is the village's tailor," Isabel supplied quickly.

"Indeed," Mr. Bertrand said icily, looking the mousy man up and down.

Mr. Sanders gazed at Isabel. "In this light, Mrs. Bauer, you hold an uncanny likeness to Botticelli's _Venus._"

Isabel felt her face burn.

Mr. Bertrand's expression had become disbelieving as his eyes stayed on the short man before him.

"Mr. Sanders," Isabel said, flustered, "it is a flattering comparison, but I have told you before, such compliments are not necessary. Though I appreciate the kind words, they are not always—"

"Who is to say that the comparison was a compliment, Mrs. Bauer?" Mr. Bertrand shifted his gaze from the tailor to the maid. "One may argue that, while _Venus_ is indeed an ambitious artistic attempt, the fact of the matter is, the goddess is a seashell-stranded, forlorn-looking girl who has no clothes on. If you consider the resemblance a testament to your beauty, I suggest you research the source of the 'flattering comparison' before accepting it as a compliment."

Isabel's mind went blank as she stared at the man. The fedora had slipped down, exposing a loose lock of hair and a strip of skin along his neck. She took an automatic step back, bringing her eyes to his. "Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Bertrand," she said coolly, trying to gather her wits. She turned back to Mr. Sanders and smiled apologetically. "Mr. Sanders, we really must be on our way, but it was lovely to see you, as always."

The tailor tore his eyes from Mr. Bertrand's face and beamed at Isabel, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Always, always. Stop by the shop the next time you're in town and we'll have tea!" His eyes brightened to an unearthly shade of blue. "You and your little one and your friends! Yes, and we shall all enjoy ourselves!"

Isabel desperately groped around her mind for an appropriate response, but as she opened her mouth, Mr. Bertrand cut her off.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Bauer will find herself greatly indisposed with duties at home, in the near future, sir," he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back.

Mr. Sanders' pleased look slowly drained from his face. "Too busy for tea?"

"I daresay," Mr. Bertrand replied, smirking.

Mr. Sanders stood up straighter, smiling once more. "Well, we shall see. These things have a way of working themselves out, you know."

Mr. Bertrand shot Isabel an amused look. "So I have heard," he said, glancing at Isabel. "However, I still would not count on it."

Cursing under her breath, Isabel spun around, grabbed her son's arm and stormed off towards the carriage, leaving the three men standing in the road, all of them gazing after her.

* * *

_Props to Chat for staying up until an ungodly hour to beta. She is, as they say, the shiznit.  
Will I ever run out of excuses to send these poor people to town? Probably not.  
The reviews continue to stun and delight me. Mad, crazy, running-around-shrieking-with-glee love to you all._


	19. Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Isabel looked up from the basin she was washing the dishes in.

"Pardon?"

"Mr. Smithers or Smothers or whatever his name is."

Isabel wiped the plate she was holding dry and placed it in the open cabinet. "Mr. Sanders?"

"Was that it? Yes, Mr. Sanders. He certainly seemed... intimately acquainted with you."

Isabel's eyes narrowed. "He is the local tailor, as I said. We have conducted multiple business arrangements, the most recent being your cloak. Any other type of relationship we may have..." she leaned over the basin, taking a deep breath.

Mr. Bertrand's posture stiffened and his lips curled into a furious snarl.

"Exists only in your mind," Isabel finished, exhaling slowly.

Mr. Bertrand's stance relaxed and he crossed his arms, casually leaning against the wall and raising an eyebrow. The black mask donned the right side of his face again, his skin looking paler than usual from the contrast.

"Why do you ask?"

His shrug seemed careless, almost absent-minded, yet the roll of the shoulders seemed to possess a certain air of grace. She added "elegant" to the mental list of words she was collecting that described the strange man before her, alongside "arrogant", "sarcastic" and "ungrateful". She had shared her thoughts with Samantha during her visit, and the younger woman had looked positively scandalized until she burst out laughing: a surprisingly gruff, unladylike noise erupting from her throat.

"No particular reason. As I said, he seemed very familiar with you." He flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his lawn shirt.

"Mr. Sanders is..." Isabel absently swirled a finger in the cold water of the basin. "Mr. Sanders seems to have taken a liking to me, which I have not encouraged in the slightest."

"A liking to you? The man was practically salivating, Isabel."

She slowly raised her eyes to his, quirking a brow. Mr. Bertrand's gaze remained on his shirtsleeve, his fingertips running over the material in search of more dust to brush off.

"I'm sure it is a harmless infatuation," she said lightly, moving her gaze to the window and peering into the darkness.

"Harmless infatuations can become dangerous," he said softly. Isabel turned her head and took a step back – he was inches from her, towering over her form. "You can take my word on that."

"Mr. Sanders is not a dangerous man," she said, bristling to mask her discomfort.

"Can you be so certain? What man lavishes such praise on a married woman?"

She crossed her arms. "I am not entirely sure the subject of my marriage has come up in conversation, Mr. Bertrand. It is very possible that he does not know." She paused. "Praise? I thought you said he was not complimenting me."

"I did not say that," he sighed, drawing away from her. "I merely suggested you consider the possibility that he could have created a more apropos comparison. I, personally, have never found _Venus_ to be particularly beautiful. Perhaps, however, it was merely a matter of opinion." His lip curled in a faint sneer. "Though I find it somewhat doubtful that that half-wit of a tailor has any education whatsoever in the arts, and therefore his opinion should be void on principle."

"Not everyone can be well educated, _monsieur," _Isabel snapped. "Some of us need to make do with what we're given, which is more often than not a shoddy school where we are taught the basics of reading and arithmetic. Many adults in this country cannot read at all. But they work the land; they grow the food you eat, they make the clothes you wear, they build the houses you live in. No, perhaps Mr. Sanders does not know as much as you about Botticelli, but without him, this village would be walking around as naked as Adam and Eve in Eden. He deserves your respect."

His mouth had taken that rare form again, one side tightening and drawing up, a barely-discernible smile that relaxed his face remarkably.

"Why, Mrs. Bauer," he said, gazing at her with an air of pleasant surprise. "I really didn't know you had it in you."

_Condescending,_ Isabel added to the list as he turned and stalked out of the kitchen as stealthily as a cat.

* * *

_Bella,_

_Tom wrote me about the stable incident and I have to say, I'm not getting a very pleasant image of the man you're living with. In fact, the more I think on it, the more furious I become that he threatened not only Thomas, but you, over something as silly and frivolous as a loose horse. I have half a mind to write him a very strongly worded letter telling him precisely what I think. I don't think that would bode well for your position of employment, so I'll leave it be for now. _

_I've been asking around the town if anyone has ever heard of the Bertrands and so far no one has. I know you'll think I'm poking my nose into other people's business (Saint Isabel was never guilty of that sin, if memory serves) but I believe my actions are justified, being as I can't be there to size the fellow up myself. I'm trusting you to remove yourself from this man's presence if you actually believe him capable of harming yourself or Tom, do you understand? The entire letter our son sent me sent a chill through me. I do not trust this man (particularly since he appears to be so well-established yet his name is unrecognizable to anyone I've spoken to) and I think you would do well to feel the same._

_I'm afraid I have no happy news to report. Robert has broken a leg and it appears that the wound has become infected. It's been five days and he is showing no signs of improvement. Old McKedson insists he knows enough about medicine to treat him, and although I somewhat doubt his knowledge in this particular field, we cannot possibly afford a doctor and will therefore have to make do. I have never seen my brother look so ill; his skin is burning, yet his face is pale and clammy. I'm fearing the worst, Isabel. Please pray for him. _

_He is stirring in his sleep now; I must go to him. Take care of Tom and yourself, as always. _

_Yours,_

_Daniel

* * *

_

Samantha Kinneston's dress looked as if it must have been pink at some point, but as she stood before Isabel, a smile beaming from her face, the material was washed-out with age and covered in a thin layer of dirt.

"Really, Samantha, we could arrange these meetings better, I'm sure. You look as if you've traveled through a war zone to get here."

"Clearly, you've never been to the market on a Saturday morning," the younger woman replied brightly, seating herself on the sofa in the still-peach parlor. Isabel couldn't tell whether the color of the walls was beginning to grow on her or if she was simply too weary to seriously consider repainting it, but either way, the room had remained the same.

"Bit of a nightmare over there, is it?" Isabel settled onto the sofa beside Samantha, pouring tea into the delicate china cups reserved for company.

Samantha sighed theatrically and shot Isabel a grin. "I'm afraid so. I truly believe you haven't seen all that the countryside has to offer until you have seen two old spinsters battle each other for the last fresh loaf of bread from the bakery." She reached for the teacup, an eyebrow quirking thoughtfully. "I was quite sure one was going to bludgeon the other to death with a stale baguette."

Isabel laughed. "A noble way to die."

Samantha sipped the tea and looked around the room. "I must say, Isabel, Mr. Bertrand seems to be quite reclusive. Does he always shut himself up in his study?"

"I believe he comes out at night to stalk young women and drink their blood."

Samantha choked on her tea. "Honestly, what a beastly thing to say."

Isabel's mouth twitched into a smile. "And unwise, as well. Mr. Bertrand is very skilled in lurking; I am convinced he has heard every conversation I've ever had in or around this house."

The noncommittal noise Samantha was making in response was cut short by the door swinging open to reveal a poised form in rumpled attire: Nadir Khan looked tired, his eyelids drooping, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. His vest and coat had been discarded and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, the white lawn sweat-stained and stuck to his skin.

Isabel glanced at Samantha. The younger woman's eyes had widened slightly and her teacup was poised in front of her mouth, her lips parted in a slight gape.

"Isabel," the Persian said, pausing for a moment to yawn widely, "pardon me... Isabel, your son and I took a walk through the gardens and I'm afraid he was rather exhausted by the end of it. He went straight upstairs and is asleep on his bed."

"Thank you, Nadir. I appreciate you letting me know."

"This accursed heat, I think, is to blame. It simply drains you of all your energy. I feel as if I have been doing hard labor from dawn 'til dusk." He smiled sheepishly.

Isabel chortled. "You look quite tired, if I may say so." She nodded toward Samantha, now setting her teacup on her lap and fiddling with the arm of the sofa, picking at loose threads and tapping her fingers against the fabric. "You remember Ms. Kinneston, I hope."

Nadir's eyes snapped to the young woman and his face registered momentary surprise. He composed himself quickly and bowed, straightening and adopting his usual refined air. The mussed state of his appearance did not deter from his elegant stance, and Isabel found herself wondering how on earth the man achieved such a level of grace.

"Ms. Kinneston. I trust I find you well."

"Indeed," Samantha replied, tugging at a thread on the couch.

Unless Isabel's eyes were deceiving her, the younger woman's face was slighter pinker than it had been a moment ago.

"Please," Isabel said, indicating the tea tray with a wave of her hand, "join us."

Nadir eyed the tray. "Where is Erik?"

"Preying on innocent maidens, apparently," Samantha said, gazing into her teacup thoughtfully.

Nadir started, staring at Samantha in alarm. "I beg your pardon?"

"He's in his study," Isabel said, ignoring Samantha. "He informed me this morning that he has terribly important business to attend to and that it would be in my best interest not to disturb him."

Nadir sighed. "Important business, indeed."

"What is it that he does, exactly?" Isabel asked casually, sipping her tea as Nadir seated himself at the table and poured himself a cup. "As a profession. I can't bring myself to ask him for fear of being scolded for my curiosity."

A corner of the Persian's mouth lifted in a smile as he finished pouring his tea. "What is it that he does... an unassuming question with a very large answer."

Samantha tilted her head and looked at Isabel quizzically. The two women waited patiently as Nadir tasted his tea and nodded, apparently satisfied with the flavor.

"As you have most likely gathered, he has experience in architecture."

"I suspected as much," Isabel said. "The stable," she added at Samantha's questioning look. She turned back to Nadir. "What sort of things did he build?"

Nadir paused, a slightly pained look taking his face. "Homes," he said finally. "Er... large homes."

"Back in France?" Isabel knew she was prying, but the opportunity to inquire about Mr. Bertrand while he wasn't around may not come again for a while, and she was willing to overlook Nadir's uncomfortable expression if it meant she could learn more about her employer's life before now.

"Well, he did some building in France, yes..." Nadir shifted in his seat, tapping his teacup with his finger. "But that was mostly... has he never spoken of this to you?"

"Sir, Mr. Bertrand has never spoken of anything to me."

Samantha let out a small sigh and placed her teacup back on the tray.

"I apologize, Ms. Kinneston," Nadir said, looking at the young woman squarely. "This must all be rather boring for you."

"Oh, no," Samantha said, waving her hand dismissively. "I've developed my own curiosities about the man, despite only having met him once. He seemed..." she considered her words. "Mysterious," she finished.

"Yes, I fear that observation never changes, no matter how long you have known him." Nadir sighed again. "Ah, well."

"What did he build in France?" Isabel asked.

Nadir shifted again, clearly not pleased with this vein of conversation. "It was mostly… artistic. He helped build a… playhouse of sorts."

"I see." Isabel slumped back on the sofa, bringing her cup to her lips. "So just architecture then? He must have made quite a name for himself to be as wealthy as he is."

"It is a profession that pays well," Nadir said politely, selecting a scone off the tray.

"Do you know what he is doing in his study right now? Planning another structure?"

"Really, Isabel, I have never heard you use such brusque tones, nor would I expect you to ask such invasive questions."

Isabel's face flushed instantly at the chide and she looked down at her hands, nervously kneading her skirts between her fingers. "Forgive me. My pent-up curiosity is simply bursting, I'm afraid."

"Though, if you must know," the Persian continued, biting the scone in half and continuing as if he hadn't heard Isabel's apology, "I believe he is composing at the moment."

Samantha stared blankly. "Composing? Composing what?"

Nadir shrugged. "A symphony, a concerto, an aria… perhaps an entire opera. It is hard to say what he will produce at any given moment." He grinned wryly. "As I am sure you have noticed, his moods tend to change somewhat rapidly."

"Yes, I've been picking up on that," Isabel grunted.

A squeak sounded from the door and it opened slowly, a little, brown-haired head poking into the room.

"That was a short nap," Isabel said, raising an eyebrow.

"I woke up," Thomas said, wiping his eyes.

"We can see that," Samantha quipped.

"Darling," Isabel said, rising from the sofa and nearing Thomas, "you're all flushed. Are you feeling alright?"

Thomas shook his head and slumped over to the sofa, plopping next to Samantha, who wrinkled her nose slightly and moved aside.

Isabel clucked her tongue and walked over to the boy, placing a hand on his forehead. "Thomas, you're absolutely burning up." She dropped to her knees and wiped some locks off his forehead, the hair sticking to his skin from the thin sheen of sweat forming on his brow. "What happened?"

Thomas shrugged, snuggling further into the sofa and sighing. "I'm still tired but I'm too hot to sleep, Mama."

Nadir was kneeling beside the sofa in an instant, worried lines appearing on his face. "Do you feel ill?"

Thomas shrugged again. "Just sleepy." He looked at Nadir. "I'm sorry I couldn't finish our walk. I wanted to see the apple orchard down the road that we were going to visit."

Nadir smiled. "It will be many months before we see any apples on those trees, anyway. We are not missing anything, I think."

Thomas gave a weak smile.

Standing, Isabel gathered her son in her arms and picked him up, ignoring the shriek of protest she could feel in her muscles. She left the room silently, rushing to the third floor as quickly as she could with the weight of Thomas on her. She laid him on his bed gently and kissed his forehead, murmuring vague promises of how well he would be in a few hours. She hurried back down the stairs and into the kitchen, soaking several rags in water from the basin and wringing them out. As she made her way to the staircase again, she saw Samantha and Nadir staring at her from the parlor at the end of the hall and gave them an apologetic smile.

"Is he alright?" Samantha asked, her alarmed expression softening slightly.

"I'm sure he'll be fine… children catch anything that comes their way, you know. If you'll excuse me, I must tend to my son."

Isabel gathered her skirts and fled up the stairs, leaving the two guests staring after her bemusedly.

* * *

"A fever? And why was I not informed of this immediately?"

A crack of thunder almost drowned out the last part of Mr. Bertrand's question and Isabel strained to hear, but she got a clear idea of his anger by the ugly twist of his mouth and the lines forming around his eyes. She glanced around his bedroom quickly, uncomfortable by her surroundings. He had summoned her after dinner and bid her to come into his room where they may speak away from prying eyes – apparently he was beginning to grow weary of Nadir's constant observation.

"It's just a trifling cold, Mr. Bertrand. I didn't think you would be interested."

He snarled as he paced in front of the unlit fireplace. "I do not wish to be surrounded by sick children, Mrs. Bauer." He paused in front of a small trunk by the window, kneeling and flipping the top open. He began sifting through it and Isabel heard the tinkling of glass moving against glass. She glanced out the window and saw the thick sheets of rain pouring from the skies. She sighed. _At least the horses are behaving themselves this time._

"You will mix these with water," he said, pulling vials out and examining labels carefully before setting them on the ground next to him, "and give a glass of the solution to your son every three hours. Just a pinch of each will do."

Deciding to ignore his commanding tone for now, she knelt down beside him and gathered the vials. "Thank you," she said quietly, keeping her gaze on the floor. An awkward silence followed and she felt a familiar heat creep up her face; though her eyes were steadily cast down, she could feel him looking at her openly. She stood as gracefully as she could manage and left the room, her head still bowed.

As she passed the study, a head popped out of the doorway. "How is he doing?"

Isabel jumped at the sound of Nadir's voice, clearing her throat and shifting the vials in her arms. "He was upset that he was not told of Thomas's condition straight away."

"I meant your son," the Persian said with a small smile.

"Oh." The flames of embarrassment licked up her face once more. "He fell asleep just before dinner. It's been quiet upstairs ever since, so he must still be resting."

Nadir glanced between Mr. Bertrand's shut door down the hall and the vials Isabel was holding. "What are those?"

"Medicines. Mr. Bertrand told me to give them to Thomas."

"Yes," Nadir said quietly, staring down the hall with a pensive expression, "Erik does hate to see children ailing." He gave Isabel a distracted smile and made to shut the door.

"Goodnight, sir," Isabel whispered, turning back to the hall.

"Goodnight, Isabel." He paused and she turned to look at him.

A deep sadness was etched on his face, a look of mourning shading the usual brightness of his countenance. "I would recommend following Erik's advice, Isabel. It occasionally proves invaluable."

Before Isabel could ask him what was wrong, he shut the door.

Blinking at the dark wood for a moment, she stepped back out into the hallway and hurried down it, climbing the stairs to the third floor. Entering Thomas's room quietly, she uncorked the vials and added pinches of the contents into a small glass beside the water pitcher on his dresser.

A roll of thunder sounded outside and she heard a gust of wind beat rain against the window. Pouring water into the glass, she looked over her shoulder. "Darling, you need to take this."

There was no response from the bed.

"Thomas?" She set the glass down and walked to the bed, placing a hand on the blankets gently, squinting to see better in the darkness. "Tom, darling, you need to swallow this down so you'll feel better."

Her coax was met with silence.

She sighed and grasped the blankets, preparing to pull them back. "Honestly, Thomas, you sleep like the de—" She stumbled back in surprise at the sight that greeted her: an empty bed, illuminated by a bolt of lightening streaking across the sky and bathing the room in a split-second of brightness.

"Thomas?" she said loudly, looking around the room for a candle. "Thomas, this is not amusing. Where are you?"

She fumbled around his bedside table as she searched for matches, a weary sort of panic rising in her chest. Finding a box, she struck one and lit the candle, quickly glancing around the room. "Thomas David, where _are _you?" she called. She swept through the third floor, the panic rising higher. She rushed down the stairs and almost crashed into Nadir. He stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking alarmed. "Whatever happened?"

"Thomas is not upstairs," she said, her voice cracking.

Worry lines instantly appeared on Nadir's forehead. "Oh. Well, perhaps he is simply downstairs. Getting something to eat, possibly." He took her elbow and steered her towards the staircase, going down with her quickly.

"Tom?" Isabel hissed, peering around the kitchen. "Tom!"

"I will go check the library," Nadir said, speeding down the hall. Isabel wrapped her free arm around her stomach and closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. It was another bad habit: flying into a state of irrepressible panic at the drop of a hat.

She heard Nadir's footsteps going up the stairs once more and hurrying above her head, pausing as he checked each room. Her stomach began to churn. She looked out the window at the stable and felt a small wave of relief. _Perhaps… perhaps... _she set the candle on the kitchen table and ducked outside, running through the rain until she reached the building. Wrenching the door open, she felt her entire body deflate as she saw nothing but two confused horses standing in the stable, cocking their heads curiously at her sudden presence. She stepped out and shut the door, hurrying through the storm. She closed to door behind her and slid down it, clutching at her stomach.

Nadir walked into the kitchen, sliding a coat over his shoulders and buttoning it up. "He is not in the house. I am going to go look for him."

Isabel chewed on her lip. "I'm coming with you." She stood up, brushing off her damp skirts and heading towards the hall.

Nadir held an arm out. "No, Isabel. There is no sense in both of us getting drenched." He smiled anxiously. "Besides, what if Erik is in sudden and desperate need of you? I cannot risk that."

"Hang Erik!" she shouted, grabbing a hold of Nadir's shoulders and shaking. "He's my son! He's my _son!_"

"And I promise," the Persian replied, gently prying her fingers from his coat, "that I will find him. I think I may know where he is." He turned and left the room. She watched him jerk the front door open and glance at her over his shoulder. "Do not worry, Isabel," he called over the raging wind outside. He shut the door behind him.

A loud thumping upstairs startled Isabel into the present.

"What the bloody hell is going on down there? The racket is enough to drive a man mad!"

Isabel gazed up the stairs at the angry form of Mr. Bertrand. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she leaned against the wall and slid down it, shutting her eyes tightly.

She was furious to feel the tears begin falling down her face.

"What is it?" Mr. Bertrand hissed from the top stair.

"Thomas is…" she swallowed thickly, the warm water still flowing from beneath her closed eyelids. "He's gone."

"_What?_"

"He's not… in the house and Nadir just left… to look for him outside…" her body began to wrack with sobs. "And this storm! He c-could be lost and f-frightened! And he w-was already s-sick!"

"_Merde,_" the man muttered, descending the stairs. "That child of yours was born with no common sense."

Isabel's fresh cries mingled with the deafening clap of thunder overhead.

"Oh, do calm yourself," Mr. Bertrand snapped. She looked up at him through the streams of tears and saw the black mask blending eerily into the darkness around him – he appeared to only possess half a face.

He strode towards her and she shrunk back, pressing against the wall, feeling afraid and foolish and angry all at once. He stopped when he saw her reaction. Drawing back slowly, he straightened himself and narrowed his eyes. "I suppose you wish for me to accompany Nadir in this search."

Not trusting her voice, Isabel shook her head vigorously.

"Nadir Khan is a skilled tracker," he said, and Isabel looked up in surprise at the gentle tone he used. "Finding a small boy should be no challenge."

She nodded, wiping at her eyes.

He glanced towards the kitchen. "Did you check the stable?"

"Yes," she said hoarsely.

"Do you…" he grimaced. "Do you… need anything?"

She stared at him in sheer wonder. His posture was relaxed, his gaze questioning and mild. She had never seen him look so… kind.

"No," she choked out. "Just Thomas."

He nodded stiffly. "Of course. But perhaps some chamomile tea would help soothe your nerves."

"Chamomile?"

"Indeed. She would swear by ginger, but I always found chamomile to be more relaxing."

Isabel furrowed her forehead and sniffed. "Who swore by ginger?"

Mr. Bertrand's presence immediately chilled and his eyes narrowed to slits. "'She', Mrs. Bauer, none of your—"

The front door burst open and Nadir entered, carrying a dripping wet bundle in his arms.

Isabel rose from the floor and rushed to him. "Thomas!"

"As I suspected," Nadir grunted, kicking his boots off. "In the orchard we were going to visit today."

"Is he alright? Thomas, say something!"

"I'm afraid he is not speaking very well, Isabel; I don't know how long he was outside, but he is positively soaked to the skin and freezing."

"As are you, Nadir," Mr. Bertrand said, reaching out and taking the child from the Persian's arms. He turned silently and strode up the stairs. Isabel followed closely behind him, nearly tripping up the stairs.

Mr. Bertrand climbed the stairs to the third floor quickly and entered Thomas's room, laying the boy on his bed and taking the cold, wet coat from his small body. Thomas didn't stir; his face was pale and his breathing was shallow and erratic. Isabel fell to her knees beside the bed and clutched his hand; it was freezing to the touch.

Mr. Bertrand placed a large hand on Thomas's forehead and released a sigh. "It is not good, Isabel," he said, standing. "It is not at all good. I will fetch more remedies, but…" he cursed and shook his head, leaving the room silently.

Isabel held Thomas's hand and felt fresh tears prick behind her eyes.

_Oh God, please show us mercy.

* * *

_

_Whew, extra-long chapters. Sorry about the delay — had a nasty bit of writer's block, but I kicked its sorry ass to the curb. Apparently.  
As always, cream-soaked, catnip-filled thanks to Chat(astic), barkeep of Erik's Fuzzy Navel and one fabulous beta._


	20. Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

Mr. Bertrand's pacing, though bothersome at first, was now offering some form of distraction: the rhythmic footfalls acting as a sort of soothing lullaby, calming Isabel's jagged nerves until her breathing and pulse had slowed.

The town's only physician, Dr. Brookfield, rattled a tray in the next room, causing Isabel to jump from her seat. Mr. Bertrand paused in his striding, then snorted and resumed. Her insistence at bringing in a doctor had infuriated him and he was now pointedly ignoring her presence.

Nadir was sitting quietly, a contemplative expression on his face. The tray of tea and biscuits lay untouched on Isabel's nightstand; she glanced at the food and felt her stomach lurch.

Sinking back down onto the chair, she looked at her surroundings uneasily: Mr. Bertrand and Nadir had taken up residence in her bedroom, being the nearest room to Thomas at the moment, and the entire situation left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Mr. Bertrand kept pausing and examining her possessions and Nadir simply stared around the room. The room was filled with an eerie quiet, save for the quiet _thuds_ of Mr. Bertrand's pacing.

A door creaked. Isabel shot out of her chair and rushed to the hall. Dr. Brookfield shut the door to Thomas's room behind him and turned his gaze to Isabel, his expression grave.

"The fever has progressed rapidly, Mrs. Bauer. I will be plain: I do not think he will survive the night if we do not act quickly."

Isabel felt her knees weaken. "What is there to be done?"

"The old ways are best. He shall be bled."

Suddenly, a strong arm was around her shoulders and Isabel felt herself being steered towards her chair. Nadir released her and she thudded back onto the stuffed seat, her body growing cold. The Persian gave her a sympathetic look before turning his attention to Dr. Brookfield, his tone quietly pleading.

"Doctor, do you really think it necessary to drain the boy's blood supply? It is a remedy that has been abandoned by many—"

"It is no _remedy _at all!" Mr. Bertrand snarled, approaching the doctor and drawing himself up to his full height. The physician looked at the masked man in alarm and took an unsteady step back.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Bloodletting is an outdated procedure that serves no purpose whatsoever. What are you planning on doing, Doctor? Replace the heated blood with cool water? He will die!"

"Mr. Bertrand," Dr. Brookfield said coolly, peering at the fuming man over his spectacles, "if I do not treat him immediately, he will not live to see daylight. I have rarely seen this fever, but when it appears, it is almost always fatal. If we bleed him, there is a good chance that the toxins will release themselves –"

"Yarrow will do the same! A dose of it along with a constant cold compress will break any fever."

The physician stared at Mr. Bertrand, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. "Really, sir, I do not think you are in a position to question my knowledge on the subject. There is a reason Mrs. Bauer asked _me_, and not _you_, to treat her son."

Isabel groaned and slid deeper into her chair, burying her face in her hands. She prayed to slip into unconsciousness, to end this horrific night and awake to a healthy son.

"Your medical opinion, _doctor,_ is short-sighted and foolhardy! I will not allow this child to be the victim of an arrogant physician who would rather prove me wrong than cure the patient!"

"This has nothing to do with you!" Isabel screamed, shooting out of the chair with violent force. She felt a lump rising in her throat and struggled to compose herself, ignoring the tears sliding down her face. "How dare you take my son's illness and twist it into a personal insult! How _dare_ you! _I_ took care of _you_, Erik Bertrand! I took care of you because you could not care for yourself! And now you have the audacity to assume that your knowledge of medicine is greater than a physician's? That you alone can cure him? I apologize, _Mr. Bertrand_, if it offends you, but I trust Dr. Brookfield's opinions no the subject more than yours, and with very good reason!"

"It is simple logic, Isabel! Does it make any _logical sense_ that removing something as vital as _blood_ would help a sick boy? Does that make sense?"

Isabel shut her eyes and fell back into her chair.

"Isabel." Nadir's calm voice appeared beside her and she cracked one eye open. The Persian was kneeling beside the chair, and he placed a hand on her arm gently. "Isabel, I know you're scared, but I believe you should trust Erik." He shook his head at her bewildered expression. "I know he has not done much to prove himself worthy of your respect, but I know how wise he can be, and how well he knows his remedies." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I have entrusted him with my life on more than one occasion."

He paused.

"And the life of my child."

Isabel stared at the Persian beside her, her eyes widening with confusion. "Your child…" she said softly, searching Nadir's face for an answer.

The Persian's steady gaze stared back at her, the jade eyes red-rimmed and tired.

"Please, Isabel. For your son's sake."

Isabel felt more tears begin to course down her face and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, enraged at herself for the hopelessly obvious display of weakness. Now was a time to be brave; now she had to be strong.

"I can't lose him."

Nadir reached out and grasped her hand lightly and she opened her eyes, staring down at his grip. His dark fingers lay over hers gently, a reassuring touch that seemed to stave off the tears.

"You won't."

"Pardon me." Dr. Brookfield's elegant voice had lost its pleasant tone and his eyes had narrowed to slits. "Am I allowed to tend to my patient, or am I to leave him in the care of this…" his gaze lingered on Mr. Bertrand's mask, his expression betraying disgust, "man?"

The cold despair that had settled in Isabel's stomach didn't lessen when she nodded in reply.

* * *

Samantha's bright eyes had filled with tears as Isabel recounted the previous night, her voice thick with lack of sleep and worry.

"A fever? What have you done? What can be done?" The young woman's tone grew slightly hysterical. "Is he alright? Is he awake now?"

Isabel shook her head. "No, Tom is still… sleeping." She glanced around town square nervously. "Do keep your voice down, Samantha. The last thing I want is a horde of strangers showing up with their well-wishes."

Samantha crossed her arms and attempted a smile. "Certainly." Her face fell. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at his bedside?"

A cold shock of annoyance shot through Isabel. "Yes, I should. But Daniel should be informed of this, and both Nadir and Mr. Bertrand insisted that I should be the one to write the telegram." She sighed, leaning against the building beside her. "They are caring for him now."

Samantha looked alarmed. "Nadir and Mr. Bertrand? What of Dr. Brookfield? An irritating man, to be sure, but a fine physician."

Isabel glared as a passerby gawked openly at her bedraggled appearance. She couldn't really blame them: her skirts were wrinkled and muddy from the journey, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, her hair loose and flowing in a tangled mess around her shoulders. She ran her fingers through the knots feebly, pulling at them until her scalp ached.

"Dr. Brookfield recommended we bleed him. I preferred the second opinion I heard."

"Which was?"

Isabel hesitated. "Yarrow."

Samantha raised an eyebrow with perfect elegance. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Bertrand made up a concoction of some sort that involved yarrow. Apparently it promotes perspiration, which releases toxins in the blood."

Samantha stared at Isabel, her expression quite blank. "He is trying to perspire your son well?"

"Yes." Isabel had the urge to squirm under Samantha's indignant gaze. "It should work," she insisted meekly. "It should."

"Isabel, you took medical advice from a man who almost let his own hand rot off?"

"God," Isabel groaned, rubbing her face with her hands. "I know. But…" she raised her eyes to the clear blue sky above her, searching for the words. "But… there was an earnestness in his voice that I could not ignore. A true desire to help."

"A desire to help has nothing to do with it. _I_ could have a desire to help, but that does not mean that I know what I'm talking about. Dr. Brookfield—"

"Wanted to bleed my son half to death," Isabel snapped. She regretted the tone when she saw the startled look on Samantha's face, the young woman's eyes growing wide and her mouth parting in a slight gape. "Forgive me," she said, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. "It has been a long night."

Samantha nodded, still looking surprised. "Have you sent the telegram yet?"

"Yes, I just left the post office."

"What is he going to be able to do?"

Isabel shrugged. "Pray."

Samantha scrutinized her friend with suspicious eyes. "Do you want me to go back to the house with you? I am sure the Foresters would allow me some time to visit a sick friend." She paused. "I think."

Isabel smiled at the kind woman in front of her. "No, that's not necessary. But thank you."

Samantha opened her mouth to reply when her gaze traveled behind Isabel and she let out a groan. "Oh, dear Lord. Mr. Sanders has spotted us."

Isabel whipped her head around and grimaced as the tailor's joyous face came into focus.

Samantha made a sour face. "If that man becomes any more jubilant, I do believe he will explode."

"Mrs. Bauer! Oh, my dear Mrs. Bauer, how are you?" Mr. Sanders brushed past Samantha and peered at Isabel, his smile covering half of his face.

"I am fine, Mr. Sanders," Isabel replied, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I trust you are well."

"Oh, yes! These showers are doing wonders for my garden! Fresh buds springing forth like Athena from the head of Zeus!"

"Indeed," she replied, looking at Samantha for help. The younger woman's brow was set in lines of concentration and she was tapping her chin thoughtfully.

"What brings you to town this early, Mrs. Bauer? Mr. Bertrand feeling peckish? Requires some strange dish with ingredients that need to be specially ordered? A pâté, perhaps? Maybe a nice bowl of gruel? Do you have gruel in the house? I know where you can get some of excellent quality at a fair price."

Isabel raised an eyebrow. "No, not exactly. I was merely—"

"Mr. Sanders!" Samantha exclaimed suddenly, her bright eyes sparkling with what appeared to be genuine delight. "It has simply been an _age_ since I last saw you! How _ever_ are you doing?"

Mr. Sanders' gaze twitched between the two women, his face falling. "Oh, Miss… Miss…"

"Kinneston," Samantha supplied. "Samantha Kinneston." She waited as comprehension dawned on the tailor's face and his expression, once again, took a gleeful air.

"Ah, yes! The little girl who worked for the Foresters! Fine family, that, fine family indeed. Mrs. Forester has impeccable taste. Always knew exactly what she wanted… had an unfortunate tendency to interfere with the production of her requested items, but I suppose she was used to being in command. Particularly with that flighty husband of hers," he added thoughtfully.

"Yes, Mrs. Forester is a lady of the highest fashion." Samantha smiled warmly and glanced between Isabel and the road behind Mr. Sanders. She lifted her head and cleared her throat. "Mr. Sanders, I know this is terribly last-minute, but I find that the skirts I have now are always hopelessly wrinkled. The material I purchased last time is undoubtedly to blame; I do believe it was a signal from Fate that I should not attempt to sew my own garments when there is such an incomparable tailor within such a convenient distance from me. Perhaps I could put in an order for some skirts from your hand?"

Mr. Sanders beamed at the praise. "Why, certainly, my dear girl, certainly! I've only just finished up an order for Mr. Highton. His wife is ill, you know, too weak to sew anything, and their son is growing at a rather alarming rate. I wonder if it has anything to do with their diet… they refuse to ingest anything with beets in it, for some silly reason, something about the color they turn your tongue being the work of the Devil…"

Isabel slipped behind Samantha and hurried across the town square, the sound of Mr. Sander's enthusiastic voice dying as she climbed into the buggy and grabbed the reins.

She ignored the heavy coldness that settled in her chest at the idea of returning to a sick Thomas. She had managed to compose herself for the most part, keeping a careful shield of apathy on while handling the situation. She had said next to nothing to either of the men in the house after her outburst to Mr. Bertrand over the bloodletting disagreement, and she was content to keep it that way. Talking required too much energy; she felt that she simply lacked the will to position her words and force them out of her throat. Even her telegram to Daniel had been brief and without much feeling. _Thomas is ill. Very serious. Please pray for us._ She knew it wasn't fair to be so cryptic, but it was really all she could think of to say.

She glanced at the small church that sat on the edge of town. The dark brick building was crawling with ivy and a bird had built a nest in the cross above the door. She eyed a stained glass window of a weeping Mary, a thick crack running from the mourning mother's head to the bottom of the frame, obscuring the Holy Mother's face; a blasphemous flaw that distorted the woman's grief unforgivably.

Numbly, Isabel stepped down from the carriage and walked towards the church. She would repeat her prayers inside, hoping that God would hear her more clearly if she spoke inside His house.

The heavy door shut behind her and she dropped to her knees, silently begging for some relief from this torment.

Overhead, the broken Virgin wept.

* * *

The house smelled of mint when Isabel entered it hours later.

She hated herself for the time spent in the small church, crying for a son she should have been tending to. She hated herself for the reluctance she felt in returning to this damned house with the perpetual dark cloud above it and mysterious figures inside. Even now, standing in the hallway and inhaling the scent of peppermint, a comforting aroma that reminded her of childhood, she felt a thrill of horror at the idea of climbing the stairs and kneeling beside Thomas's bed. Seeing his pale, damp face, his body unmoving… Death, she felt, was looking over her shoulder. She shuddered.

"Isabel?"

Nadir stood in the doorway of the kitchen down the hall, a steaming mug in his hand.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice raw from the hours crying. "How is he?"

"Still asleep. I will take it as a sign of recovery."

Isabel made an effort to crush the sting of hope she felt welling in her chest; she was not entirely sure she would be able to survive the blow if she allowed herself the comfort of believing that he would be well only to be proven wrong by a worse turn in the illness. _Isabel Maureen Bauer,_ she thought grimly. _Optimist extraordinaire._

"I hope you will forgive me for the mess I made in the kitchen, Isabel."

Isabel's attention snapped back to the man before her. He smiled apologetically and held up the mug in explanation. "Erik asked for some tea and I am afraid I had some trouble locating the particular type he wanted."

"Tea for Thomas?" Isabel asked, her fingers kneading her skirt gently.

"No, I believe it is for Erik, as a matter of fact. He complained of stomach pains, and said mint should help soothe it."

Isabel took a step forward, her mind racing. "Mr. Bertrand is with Thomas? Alone?"

Nadir raised his brow, surprised. "Yes. Yes, he is."

Gathering her skirts, Isabel fled up the stairs.

Hurrying as quietly as she could up the steps to the third floor, she was very aware of her heavy breathing, her rapid pulse, the heat crawling all over her form from the exertion. Reaching the hallway, she tiptoed to Thomas's room and opened the door a crack. The sight that met her sent a pleasant sort of shock through her, and she opened the door entirely to gaze on it.

Thomas was, in fact, sleeping. Peacefully, it appeared. His breathing was deep and even and his face had recovered some color; though still too pale, a faint hint of rose tinged his cheeks, and it heartened Isabel. He lay curled up on his bed, his hands tucked under his head, his mouth parted slightly, his brow furrowed in sleep.

Mr. Bertrand sat on a wicker chair, one of the items left abandoned by the Churchman's. His head was propped up on his thin hand, his elbow resting on the chair's arm. The lawn shirt he wore was wrinkled and un-tucked from his black trousers. The rumpled, messy appearance that she had a growing fondness for was an infinite improvement on the cold impression his immaculate dress clothes gave. His other, bandaged hand lay across his stomach, and Isabel slowly raised her eyes to his face.

His eyes were closed and as he let out a peaceful sigh, Isabel realized he was sleeping.

"Finally getting some rest, is he?" Isabel jerked her head around and saw Nadir in the doorway. He strode forward and placed the mug he was carrying on a small table near the door. "He can drink it when he awakens," he said, indicating the tea with a wave of the hand. "With any luck, it will be cold by then and we can listen to him complain about its unsatisfactory temperature."

Isabel snorted and Nadir raised a finger to his lips. "We should keep our voices down, I think," he said softly. "Erik is not at his best when he is awakened abruptly, intentionally or not." Isabel nodded and flicked a glance at the sleeping masked man in the chair. She desperately wanted to make a comment on how she doubted she had ever seen Mr. Bertrand at his best – at least, given her experiences with the man, she hoped she hadn't – but refrained.

Thomas shifted, one arm dropping off the side of the bed, and Isabel neared him, reaching out a hand and touching his forehead with the lightest of caresses. His skin was cool and dry, and she shut her eyes, silently praying that God had been merciful.

"He is a strong child, Isabel. I do not doubt that he shall be perfectly fine, given time."

She nodded, her eyes still tightly shut.

Nadir left the room abruptly and Isabel opened her eyes, wondering, with a touch of alarm, if she had offended him. She stayed kneeling beside Thomas's bed for several minutes, too scared to leave, when she heard a rusting up the stairs. Nadir appeared once more, carrying a small tray. "You are, if I may say so, in desperate need of tea."

Isabel couldn't help it – she grinned.

"Ah, yes. I see I have finally learned the secret. The English hold a very firm belief that tea can aid in the solution of every problem, correct?"

"A silly thing to believe, but true nonetheless."

"I find that most beliefs are silly, to a certain extent. Shall we take it in your room? The hall, perhaps?"

Isabel shook her head. "I couldn't leave Thomas. I just couldn't." She smiled shyly, embarrassed by the admission. "I just need to be with him for a little while. That's all. Just to be with him." She looked at Nadir. _Please understand._

"Of course." Nadir poured tea into the dainty china cups kept in the pantry and held one out to Isabel. She accepted it, thanking him quietly, and sat on a cushioned chair a few feet from Mr. Bertrand. She gazed at his sleeping form for a moment.

"I have never seen him look so peaceful."

Nadir sighed. "And yet, even in sleep, he holds an intensity that I could never achieve. Do you not see it? The lines around the eyes, the taut skin around the mouth." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The face, Isabel, tells many stories. Some pleasant—" he smiled at her warmly, "—some not." His eyes flicked to Mr. Bertrand. Clearing his throat, he drew his teacup up to his lips and smiled. "Do select a topic of conversation. I fear I am hopeless at such things."

Isabel sipped her tea and grimaced: apparently, Nadir shared Mr. Bertrand's opinion that chamomile could soothe franticness. Calming it may be, but the taste was still utterly wretched to her tongue. Putting the cup onto its saucer, she peered at the Persian squarely. "I have been thinking on something you said."

Nadir raised an amused eyebrow. "Have you really? And what is that?"

"You suggested that Mr. Bertrand may be…" she looked at her employer again, examining him briefly for any signs of consciousness.

"He is asleep, Isabel. It is the first rest in a long time; he should be quite comfortable there for several hours yet, I daresay."

"Very well." She shifted in her seat, considering her question. "You suggested that Mr. Bertrand may be… _composing_ something in his study, correct?"

The Persian nodded.

"But I haven't heard music here in many weeks. How can he compose silently?"

Nadir smiled. "The human mind, Isabel, is a truly remarkable thing."

Isabel massaged her temple, glaring at her cup of atrocious tea.

"Oh, pardon me. I do know you hate enigmatical answers. But it is the best I can do. He hears the music in his head, and then he writes it down. It is all very simple, really."

Isabel tapped her lips with her index finger, gazing at the ceiling thoughtfully. "He must be very talented."

Nadir scoffed. "'Talented' is such a small word for what he is. One of those tragic genius types, you know. But a good man. Despite what he says, how he acts, what he has done… he is a good man."

Isabel held the Persian's gaze. "Nadir, tell me about your son."

Nadir's eyes darkened to an impossible shade of green. "Oh, Isabel," he said, sighing. "Another time."

"No, please. I want to know."

"I am tired, and it is a long, sad story." He rose, setting his empty cup back on the tray. Seeing the look of disappointment on her face, he sighed again. "Tomorrow, Isabel. After Thomas is awake, you and I shall go for a walk, and I will tell you of my Reza."

"Reza," Isabel repeated quietly as the Persian disappeared from view. A strange sort of sorrow seemed to be carried in that small name, or perhaps just in the way Nadir had spoken it. Quiet sadness of a father who loved his son.

Isabel looked at Thomas, his foot twitching in his sleep.

"Reza," a voice said, so soft it was almost inaudible. She turned to Mr. Bertrand and saw he was still asleep, his eyes closed, his head resting on his palm, but his lips were parted, and he once again repeated the soft word, his voice a faint whisper in sleep.

"Reza."

* * *

_Another decade, another update. Life's been spinning around my head lately, and story-telling comes second, so updates will be a bit scattered. Sorry 'bout that.  
Chat remains a bright ray of color in a dull gray world. All hail the betas; they are our heros.  
Ah, yes. Your reviews give me hope for humanity. Or something. I appreciate and cherish each one, anyway.  
_


	21. Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

"Isabel."

The voice sounded distant, faint and nearly inaudible. Isabel forced her heavy eyelids open and immediately threw a hand over her eyes – a light poured through the window onto her face, and she groaned at its intensity.

"Isabel, I did not mean to disturb you. I apologize most sincerely."

Isabel squinted into the direction of the voice and made out a dark form lingering in the doorway, a tray in its hands: Nadir Khan smiled sheepishly as he set the dish-laden tray down. "I thought perhaps you may be hungry. It has been hours since your last meal."

She looked down at the food before her and smiled. Fried eggs sat on thick slabs of bread, melted butter dripping down the sides; a steaming cup of tea and a small creamer sat off to the side.

"Thank you, Nadir. How very thoughtful." She reached for the teacup and brought it to her lips. Her muscles were beginning to ache from her awkward sleeping position: the chair she had dozed off in had proven an insufficient bed. She brought a hand to her shoulder and rubbed for a moment. The sharp pain her massage caused made her grimace, and she returned her attention to breakfast.

He inclined his head in a slight bow in reply. "Has he woken at all?"

Isabel set the teacup down quickly, the hot liquid splashing across her hand. She muttered darkly and wiped at it with her sleeve, shaking her head. "No, not yet." She avoided the Persian's gaze: perhaps if she remained distracted, the urge to cry would lessen.

Nadir passed her and knelt beside the bed, placing a hand on Thomas's forehead. The Persian shut his eyes and furrowed his brow, lines of concentration appearing on his face. Suddenly, the tension left and his eyes opened. Smiling satisfactorily, he withdrew his hand.

"It has broken."

Isabel scrambled from her seat and hurried to the bed, holding her hand to Thomas's forehead. Hot tears formed in her eyes as she ran her fingers along his cool, dry skin. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

"I hope it can be repaired," came a smooth voice from the doorway.

Isabel turned her head towards the voice. The familiar masked face of Mr. Bertrand greeted her – as much as anything to do with Mr. Bertrand can greet a person – and she rose form her position, bowing to him briefly. "Repaired?"

"Whatever has broken."

He paused in the doorway, the well-honed look of annoyance fluttering across his face. "My early-morning attempt at humor, Mrs. Bauer. Please excuse me."

Isabel nodded and returned her attention to the small body in the bed, ignoring the sound of a heavy sigh coming from her employer.

"Yes, Erik, we are all relieved," Nadir said pleasantly, walking over to the door and touching the masked man's elbow. He lowered his voice. "Perhaps we should leave the lady alone with her son."

Mr. Bertrand grunted and turned, leaving the room silently. Nadir smiled at Isabel and walked to the door, nabbing a crumpet off the tray.

Isabel seated herself on the bed beside Thomas and grasped his small hand, turning it over in hers. "Darling, you'll be up and about soon and we'll be able to forget that this ever happened." She wiped a lock of dark hair off his forehead. "Soon, my dearest."

She heard the quiet creak of the door shutting and the faint thudding of footsteps away from the room.

She leaned against the wall, the mattress sinking under her weight.

"Do you know, Thomas, I do believe there _is_ a ghost in this house." She looked at the shut door.

"With blood in his veins."

* * *

Nadir Khan was not a simple man. Simple men did not achieve levels of respectability in Persia – with the possible exception of the shah – and the daroga knew his was not a position to be scoffed at. Although he remained humble, he readily acknowledged that he possessed the rare gift of perception: in short, he had a remarkable ability to read people. Even those who wore masks, both figuratively and, in this case, literally. Though Erik had proven to be the most challenging man Nadir had ever encountered, the relationship had certainly provided its own brand of usefulness: he had allowed the daroga to practice his skills of understanding the human race in all its forms.

And, if Nadir let himself dwell on the subject long enough, he was forced to admit to himself that there were certain feelings associated with the masked man. Not love, certainly. No, Nadir had not felt love for anyone since the passing of his Reza. A companionship, perhaps, a foolish loyalty, perhaps respect. _Yes, that is it. Respect. _He snorted at himself. Respect, indeed. For a crazed man afraid of his own face. A thief, a murderer, a wicked seducer, desperate enough to create a monumental, elaborate lie to entangle a sweet, if somewhat childlike, girl in an endless web of mystery and music. A faux angel who viewed his humanity as his greatest weakness.

Nadir settled back into his chair, smiling at his analogy. He could not help thinking that Erik would be pleased with it.

"Is there a reason for that inane expression, Nadir?"

The Persian glanced at the masked man across the room. Erik sat on a chair in the library, paying no attention whatsoever the book in his hands.

Nadir tilted his head. "_A Study in Incan Culture,_" he read aloud. "I must say, whoever owned this house before you left behind a very eclectic array of books."

"They appear to have been eccentric people," Erik replied dryly, flipping a page with disinterest.

"Indeed." Nadir studied his friend intently, noticing, with a twinge of amusement, that Erik was obviously ignoring the scrutiny.

"I suppose Isabel will be too consumed with agony and terror to prepare any proper meals today."

"Your selfless nature continues to astound me."

Erik set the book onto his lap and glared at the daroga. "I do wish you would just say whatever is running through your mind."

"I do not think that would be a wise thing to do around you, my friend. Anyway, what do you care for my thoughts?"

Snatching the book back up, Erik settled further into the chair and held it in front of his face. The Persian could make out a thin, two-toned line above the top of the book: black leather suddenly turning to ivory skin. The contrast never failed to startle him.

Stretching, Nadir let out a yawn and rolled his shoulders, grimacing at the tightness of his muscles. "I am sure we can fend for ourselves on this one day. She works hard; she deserves some rest, particularly during this time of trial."

Not bothering to lower the book, Erik snorted. "Nadir, do yourself a favor and do not grow attached to this woman. She has a deep distaste for me. I feel quite certain that she will leave before the summer is through."

"You are an acquired taste, Erik, and I think she is tolerating you admirably."

Erik brought the book down onto the table beside him with such force that Nadir jumped in his seat.

"Daroga," he said, his body radiating the tension Nadir was so familiar with. "I understand that you are fond of her, but do not allow yourself to get so close that you are blinded to all else around you. Do not let her drag up memories of the past that are better left forgotten."

Nadir stared at the man quietly.

"You were not asleep."

"No, I was not asleep."

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "You were eavesdropping?"

"I was."

"Really, Erik, there are times when I believe you to be as old as the earth itself, and then there are times when you remind me of a child."

"How very endearing you make me sound."

"I will discuss any memories I wish to discuss with whomever I wish to discuss them with. I am very capable of making those choices for myself."

Erik relaxed his head against the back of the chair and sighed. "Of course."

"Reza has been lingering in your mind, as well. Do not bother denying it."

Closing his eyes, Erik shook his head slowly. "Such arrogance, daroga. Assuming you can now read my mind."

"Your concern – one might say passionate concern – for Thomas's well-being must have sparked by something, Erik. Being as you have made it abundantly clear that you have little or no tolerance for the boy himself, I can only deduce that you are thinking of my son and his fate."

There was a moment of heavy silence.

"You have stopped grieving." Erik opened his eyes and stared out the window, a sorrowful expression on his face. "You speak of him openly now."

"I will never stop grieving. It is the worst thing, I had been told, to lost one's child. And now I believe it, most wholeheartedly. How many years has it been, Erik? And still, he is in my thoughts every day. He and Rookeeya both…" he paused, smiling at his wife's name. Her face flashed through his mind, round and olive-skinned, black eyes that shone and a mouth that never stopped smiling. Like her son's.

He raised his eyes to meet Erik's. "The Africans have a saying. 'Everywhere I go, I wear you.' That is what I have come to accept over the years. My wife and son, they are gone now. But that does not mean I will forget them, or should forget them." He shook his head. "No, Isabel asked to hear about Reza, and I find myself tempted to tell her."

Erik dropped his gaze. "And what would you tell her of his death?"

Nadir was taken aback by the cold, sharp tone his friend's voice had taken. "The truth. He was ill and his time came."

The masked man remained silent.

"I would not dare tell her of your involvement, Erik, no matter how grateful I am for it. It would open Pandora's box… I will include you in the tale, of course, but details will not be revealed. If she is ever to learn fully of your time in Persia, Paris and wherever else you may have taken yourself, I will leave the task of informing her to you and you alone. I refuse to divulge that information."

"Once more, daroga, you display your wisdom."

"I am not sure it is wisdom. Perhaps I simply—"

"He is awake!" In a flurry of skirts and loose hair, Isabel burst into the room, drawing deep, shaking breaths as she thrust out an arm to the doorway, supporting herself. "He is awake now!"

Nadir rose from his seat. "Is he speaking?"

"Yes, though very little. He said he is thirsty and hungry." A ridiculous grin broke out on her face and Nadir noticed, not for the first time, what a lovely woman she was. A bit thin and awkward, perhaps, but she had a remarkable smile. A remarkable smile that looked somewhat familiar… Nadir furrowed his brow.

"Excuse me, I must fetch him some water and something to eat." She dashed from the room and Nadir felt her warm presence leave immediately.

Shooting Erik a glance, he walked towards the door. "Would you like to pay him a visit?"

Erik snorted and took his book up again, peering at the pages intently.

Somehow, Nadir felt that it was the appropriate answer.

* * *

Isabel's fingers were sore from the endless hours of mending she had decided to tend to. It was a strange way to pass the time, she knew – she had never been a particularly good seamstress and normally avoided sewing at any cost, but the it was a task that needed to be done, and she could mend all the skirts and bodices that had been neglected for many months past while in Thomas's room where the light was suitable.

"Mama, when can I get out of bed?" Thomas's pale face formed a slight pout as he poked at his bowl of soup.

"In a few days, love. Give it a few days."

Despite Thomas's claims to be feeling perfectly well, Mr. Bertrand had rejected the idea of the boy leaving the bed anytime soon.

"He is still weak," he had said shortly, appearing irritated at the small child's impatience. "Give him a few days in which to recover fully. Unless, of course, you wish to repeat this experience soon; in which case, please, by all means, frolic about outside at once."

Isabel had been forced to explain the meaning of the words "sarcastic" and "facetious" to Thomas after Mr. Bertrand left.

The boy sighed theatrically and Isabel peered at him over her stitching, smiling. "Oh, come now. Two or three days of doing nothing constructive whatsoever. Most boys your age only dream of such a thing."

"I know," Thomas said quietly. "I just wish I could see the horses."

"The horses will be there in three days, darling. Just rest now."

They fell back into silence, Isabel bent over her mending, Thomas gazing out the window with longing. Several comfortable moments passed; Isabel found herself smiling more than once at the simple sound of Thomas's breathing.

"Hello?" came a voice from the hall. A knock sounded on the door and a dark head poked into the room.

"Hello, Nadir!" Thomas exclaimed, sitting up in the bed.

The Persian entered, the ever-present smile on his lips. He clutched a book in his hands and Thomas eyed it eagerly. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the volume.

"Thomas," Isabel chided. "Don't be rude."

Nadir let out a bark of laughter. "He has been ill; I think we should let it pass this once." He held up the book. "This, Thomas, is a book similar to the one we read recently." He handed it to the boy, who peered at the cover with interest.

"_Common Christian Names and Their Meanings._" He looked back up at Nadir, his face questioning.

"By the same author of the book on European surnames." Nadir seated himself in an unoccupied chair by the bed and took the book from Thomas, flipping through it and searching a page briefly. "Here we are: 'Thomas, from the Aramaic word _te'oma_, meaning "twin"'."

Thomas stared in awe. "Does that mean I'm a twin?"

Isabel laughed. "No, darling, that is simply where the name came from."

"Why did you and Papa name me Thomas?"

Isabel shrugged. "It was a name we both agreed on. I'm afraid you weren't named after a relative or a war hero or anything else even slightly romantic."

"What does Mama's name mean?" Thomas asked, pointing to the book excitedly and seemingly ignoring his mother's explanation.

"Well, we shall see." Nadir flipped through pages, skimming down them until he found what he was looking for. "Ah. 'Isabel, variation of _Elizabeth_. Meaning "_Consecrated to God"'._'"

"What does consecrated mean?"

Nadir looked at Isabel, quirking a brow. "Well…"

"'Consecrated' means dedicated to a holy purpose." Isabel paused in thought. "Well, not exactly… it means…"

"Sanctified," Nadir said, closing the book. "I believe that is right." He smiled. "Your mother is sanctified."

Thomas giggled as the blush climbed Isabel's cheeks.

* * *

The cherry trees swayed in the breeze that swept past Isabel, the red-and-green fruit bobbing up and down on the branches. Absently, she lifted an arm and picked off one of the small orbs, rolling it between her fingers.

"The weather in England has, thus far, proven far too fickle for my taste." Nadir paused beneath a tree and peered up at the clear sky, squinting against the sun. "Unpleasant as the dry heat of my native land may be, at least it was consistent."

"Yes," Isabel mused, still playing with the half-ripe cherry. "Yes, England does have a tendency to fluctuate between wet and dry rather abruptly."

Nadir _harrumphed _and continued on through the orchard, stopping here and there to examine a tree. Isabel got the impression that he was simply avoiding the talk he had agreed to have with her regarding his son. She felt guilty at the thought; although she wanted her curiosity to be quenched, she did not want him to force himself to speak of things he would rather leave in the past.

Several days had passed since Thomas had woken up and he had taken his first walk outside that morning, clinging to his mother and pointing out every possible animal he encountered. Stray cats, birds, insects… nothing was spared from an excited jump and an enthusiastic cry from the young boy. He was currently in his bed, taking a well-deserved afternoon nap.

"I want to apologize for prying," Isabel said bluntly. Nadir stopped in his tracks and looked at her, surprise etched on his face.

"Asking about your son," she continued, feeling awkward. "I had no right to demand information."

"You were requesting, my dear, not demanding." He turned back to the pathway and strolled on. Isabel stared after him for a moment, then sped up to walk beside him. "And I do not mind, not really. You should not be afraid to ask for stories from the lives of the people you share a roof with." He gave an amused grunt. "Except for Erik, of course."

"Naturally."

"So, if I may be so bold to tell you the story of my Reza, since you asked me during a time of trouble with your own child…"

"Please. But do not feel obligated."

Nadir laughed softly. "I shall do my best to avoid it." He stopped again, in the middle of the pathway, the sun beating onto his face. He raised his eyes to the heavens and closed them, breathing deeply. "What is the term that is so beloved here… ah, yes. Once upon a time, Isabel, there was a very beautiful woman…"

And Isabel absorbed his story, enraptured by the haunting beauty and tragedy laid before her. The Persian's voice never wavered during his tale; it simply recited the happenings faultlessly, the words pouring out from him as if he had repeated it a thousand times before. Isabel felt her head spinning, bits of the story standing out from the rest boldly: Rookeeya, the daughter of a merchant… Nadir's promotion to daroga, a position he both appreciated and detested… the birth of a child bringing the death of the mother… a fateful trip to Russia… Reza's deteriorating health… and the boy's eventual death, quiet, peaceful and merciful.

"In his sleep? Thank God."

"Indeed," Nadir said softly. "He did not feel any pain."

"And your friend, the Russian? He helped Reza throughout the illness?"

"Distracted him, yes. He had – and still has – a wonderful gift for diverting attention away from unpleasant things. And pleasant things," he added thoughtfully. "A magician's tricks are more than enough to fascinate any small child, even one who is in Death's grasp."

"And he left Persia after the passing? Did he not stay and help you in your grief?"

"Oh, he stayed for a while, yes. The shah and khanum grew… ah… bored with him shortly thereafter, and he found it in his best interest to move on."

"I must say, Nadir, I am not overly-fond of our king, but I much prefer him to your shah. He sounds like a thoroughly unpleasant chap."

Nadir laughed. "As usual, Isabel, you put it succinctly. Very unpleasant."

Isabel smiled sadly, the image of a small, dark-skinned boy still running through her mind. "I am glad you had someone to keep you company afterwards."

"As am I." He looked down the path thoughtfully.

"It is strange to think of a ruler of a great country being concerned with a magician. Particularly to the point of requesting his presence from halfway around the world."

"Well, the shah was easily bored. And this magician was very entertaining, at one time."

"You never mentioned his name."

"His name? Oh." Nadir smiled. "It changes from time to time, you see. At the moment, it is Erik Bertrand."

Isabel felt her eyes grow wide. "_Mr. Bertrand?_ Mr. Bertrand was your Russian friend?"

"I never did say he was Russian. Only that I went to Russia to collect him."

"What on earth was he doing in Russia?"

"Oh, I am sure he was up to no good, as usual." Nadir withdrew a watch from his vest pocket and made a surprised noise. "We should get home immediately, Isabel. The time has passed quickly, and I am sure Thomas is awake by now."

They both walked down the path to the house quickly, ducking branches and stepping over muddy patches. Nadir went immediately into the library to select a different book for Thomas's before-bed reading and after checking on the boy, Isabel returned to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations.

She was half-done slicing a particularly cruel onion when she felt a heat seep through the cloth of her bodice, creeping onto her back. She whipped around and wiped the tears from her cheeks, cursing quietly as her finger brushed her eye, sending a painful sting through her head.

Mr. Bertrand stood mere inches behind her, a mild expression on the visible half of his face.

"Mother of God, Mr. Bertrand, you just scared the devil out of me!"

"And good evening to you as well, Mrs. Bauer."

Wiping her hands on her apron, she avoided his eyes. He hadn't stepped back; his presence pressed down on her, heat from his body assaulting her skin more with every passing moment. She was beginning to feel rather claustrophobic.

"Can I do something for you?"

"I merely wished to inquire after your son."

Her fingers clutched her skirts, twisting the cloth tightly. "Oh, he is very well. He seems very refreshed after his walk."

"Ah." He peered over her shoulder. "And pray, what delicacy are you preparing for this evening's meal?"

"A roast with carrots and onions. Is that alright?"

"I cannot imagine why it would not be." The closeness of his body caused his shoulder to brush her arm as he turned to go, and she drew back further. He paused at her recoil and gazed at her, his expression blank.

"Mr. Bertrand," she began, and suddenly found her throat quite dry. "I… I wanted…"

He raised his brow.

She swallowed and took a breath, gathering her wits. "I wanted to thank you for the help you gave, sir. The yarrow. When I think of letting that doctor inflict that on my son, I can't even…" she trailed off, shaking her head as if it would clear her mind of the images that came to it. "Anyway, I wanted to thank you."

Mr. Bertrand looked mildly surprised. "Certainly."

A different picture flashed through Isabel's mind's eye. Nadir's son, small and delicate, thin with illness; a fragile, frightened boy about to become acquainted with Death's scythe long before his time. And then… a young, pale man in a white mask, performing magic tricks in an attempt to spare the child the unbearable pain of mortality. She saw the both of them laughing, a moment of carefree silliness shared between two friends, a merciful distraction from the agony of dying the child was experiencing, and she felt her heart surge.

She reached forward and slipped her arms around Mr. Bertrand's waist, squeezing briefly and releasing.

His entire body had stiffened at the moment of contact and he now stood perfectly still before her, his face frozen in a look of utter shock.

Isabel turned back to her onion immediately and began chopping with unnecessary vigor. The body behind her stayed still for a few moments before walking slowly out of the room. As soon as the final footsteps sounded up the stairs, Isabel dropped the knife and slapped her palm against her forehead. "Impulsion, impulsion," she muttered. "Damn you."

A loud creak came from the front of the house and she dropped her hand, craning her neck towards the sound. Moving towards the doorway, she heard two heavy _thuds_, as if something heavy had been dropped on the floor, and she peeked out of the kitchen curiously.

When her eyes focused on the man standing in the hallway, she drew a breath so sharply, she nearly choked.

Daniel Bauer smiled sheepishly, gazing at the floor and kicking mud off his boots. "Hello, Bella."

* * *

_As always, thanks to Chat, whose beta-comments (and non-beta comments, come to think of it) never fail to make me laugh.  
Again, thank you all so much for the reviews. They're gorgeous.  
Big thanks to Mithril for her thoughtful, detailed and inspiring reviews. She's one hip lady._


	22. Twenty One

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Isabel felt her knees buckle. The smile on Daniel's face faded slowly as he took in her shocked expression.

"Where is he?"

"He?" Isabel said faintly. She swallowed and noticed, with a thrill of panic, that she couldn't feel her heart beating. She grasped at her throat gently and tried to draw a deep breath.

"Thomas."

"Thomas? Thomas is upstairs. Oh, God, Daniel, that's why you came?"

Daniel looked bewildered. "Of course it's why I came. Why else would I come?"

A tingle of indignation ran up Isabel's spine. She brushed it off, focusing on her husband's face. "He's well, Daniel. He's recovered."

Daniel slowly raised his hand to his heart and let out a long breath. "Thank God," he murmured.

"I simply cannot believe that you're here." The words did not come out as warmly as Isabel had intended them to. The somewhat clipped tone did not escape Daniel; his eyes narrowed.

"What choice did I have? My wife sends me a ridiculously cryptic message, telling me only that my son is seriously ill and that I should pray for him." He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "_Pray_ for him, as if prayer has ever done this family any good." He eyed his wife. "May I see him?"

"Oh." Isabel's wrapped her skirts around her fingers so tightly, she could feel them going numb. "Of course. Let me show you." She bowed her head and started up the stairs, listening to the heavy thudding of her husband's footsteps behind her. Her heart was racing, throbbing beneath her ribs with an almost painful intensity.

They crossed the second floor quietly and Isabel felt a surge of relief when neither Mr. Bertrand nor Nadir appeared. Walking up to the third floor, she turned to Daniel.

"He hasn't seen you in years, Daniel."

"I know." His tone was bitter.

"This will be a great shock to him."

"Isabel, you have had him to yourself for so many years now. Please. I am entitled to see my ailing child."

Isabel felt stinging behind her eyes and nodded quickly, turning back to the hall and knocking on Thomas's door gently. "Darling?"

"Mama?" came a thin voice from inside.

She opened the door and smiled at her son. He had scrounged up more paper and was seated in the middle of his bed, drawing with a look of intense concentration on his face.

"Darling," she said softly, kneeling beside the bed. "I have a… surprise for you."

The boy tilted his head. "Oh?"

"Yes. You have a visitor."

Thomas stared at her, obviously confused.

Isabel glanced over her shoulder. "Come in," she said loudly.

Daniel shuffled into the room and gazed at his son with nothing short of wonder. "Tom?" he whispered hoarsely, his mouth agape.

Thomas nodded politely. "Yes, sir."

Daniel's face fell and Isabel felt a stab of pity for him; Thomas clearly did not recognize his own father.

_Who's fault is that? _A voice in the back of her mind chided.

She set her lips firmly and turned back to her son. "Thomas, don't you know your Papa?"

Thomas's eyes became impossibly wide and he leapt from the bed.

"Papa!"

Daniel cracked a smile. "That'd be me, boy."

Jumping over his mother – and ignoring the sounds of her feeble protests to such sudden physical activity – Thomas flew into his father's arms and cluing to him tightly.

"Papa! You've been gone for _so long_!"

Daniel picked Thomas up, holding the child as close to him as possible, rocking the boy's body back and forth soothingly. Isabel noticed tears forming in her husband's eyes, the dark blue shimmering in the dim light of the room.

She felt a wet trail make its way down her face, and as she watched her son and husband embrace so desperately, she made no move to wipe it away.

* * *

"He… he's here?" Nadir's green eyes were wide with shock. Isabel could see a vein in his neck begin to throb, and she silently hoped it wouldn't burst through his skin.

"Yes, he is. He just appeared. He was worried about Thomas."

"Of course… yes, naturally. But… to arrive so suddenly! With no warning! It is most surprising."

"I agree," Isabel muttered. "I nearly collapsed when I saw him."

Nadir studied her face quietly. "You are not entirely pleased at his arrival."

Isabel stared at the Persian for a moment. Then, in a moment of reckless abandonment, she threw her head back and laughed. She leaned forward and grabbed a hold of the table in front of her to steady her body, still shaking with peels of hilarity. She straightened herself and dabbed at her damp eyes. "Yes, Nadir," she choked out, placing a hand on her stomach absently. "One might say that."

The Persian looked at her quizzically. Isabel shook her head. "A husband and wife grow weary of each other, Nadir. It is that simple."

"I had no such feeling during my marriage." His expression had hardened and Isabel felt a stab of sadness at the memory of his true-love story, ending with a dead wife and an ill son.

"I am glad you did not, Nadir. It is most irksome." She attempted a smile that faded when his cold countenance did not soften.

"Isabel, I will flatter myself to say that I can tell when others are lying. Indeed, it is a great part of the reason that I can remain on such good terms with Erik – he can rarely deceive me, much to his chagrin. Your relationship with your husband is not happy, based on what I have gathered. Not to say that it is wrong, or even uncommon, but unhappy. I cannot sense any warmth in you whenever you speak of him at all, and your reaction to his appearance has only further convinced me that your relationship with him lacks… well, joy."

Isabel stared at the Persian, aghast. "You dare to presume that, without witnessing so much as a glance exchanged between a married couple who have been separated many years, you can draw such absurd conclusions? Your union was brief, Nadir. Do not become so arrogant that you begin to believe you can understand something you know nothing about."

Nadir's eyes flashed and he stood from the stuffed chair he had been seated on. "That I know _nothing about_? And what is that exactly, Isabel? Matters of the heart? I am well-versed in them, believe me."

"It has nothing to do with the heart," Isabel muttered. "If you will excuse me, sir." She turned on her heel and exited the library quickly, dashing down the hall and ducking into the kitchen. Resting against the wall beside the fireplace, she let out a slow breath and closed her eyes, her head throbbing.

"I do hate feeling as if I am missing a rather important occurrence in my own house."

Isabel's head jerked towards the voice beside her – Mr. Bertrand's brow was furrowed quizzically.

"Occurrence?" Isabel said quietly, feeling her mouth twitch.

"Anything that would cause Nadir to raise his voice must be worth a mention, Isabel." Mr. Bertrand leaned over the table in front of him and lifted the cover off the roasting pan sitting on it. Sniffing delicately, he replaced the cover and raised his eyes to Isabel again. "Is your son well?"

"He…" Isabel flinched – her fingers were twisting her skirts so tightly, she felt a sharp pain shoot through her hand. Releasing the material, she folded her hands in front of her and attempted to look indifferent. "He's well enough, thank you. I… I'm afraid I have some unexpected news."

"As I thought," Mr. Bertrand murmured, casting a look down at the roasting pan once more.

"My… well, you see, much to my surprise, my… my husband…"

Mr. Bertrand's gaze fell over her shoulder and his mildly amused expression froze. The floor behind her creaked and she held her breath, turning her head slowly.

Daniel stood in the doorway, looking between his wife's and her employer's face quietly. Lifting a rough-skinned hand, he ran it through his hair in a futile attempt to look presentable, nodding towards the masked man in front of him. "Mr. Bertrand, I presume?" He stuck out his hand. Mr. Bertrand eyed it incredulously, leveling his gaze at Daniel with an expression of the deepest disgust etched on the visible side of his face.

"Daniel Bauer, sir, at your service." Daniel dropped his hand nervously. "Pardon me for barging in like this – you really must believe that, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't dream of doing anything so impertinent; but, seeing as my boy was knocking on Death's door, I thought perhaps we could forego formalities and I might be welcome."

Mr. Bertrand turned to face Isabel. She felt her face grow excruciatingly hot under his scrutiny and she bowed her head briefly, glancing up at Mr. Bertrand's face with painful embarrassment.

"Mr. Bertrand, my husband. Daniel, this is Erik Bertrand."

"Pleasure, sir," Daniel said, his voice suddenly timid.

Without removing his eyes from Isabel's, Mr. Bertrand nodded stiffly and left the room, his heavy footfalls echoing down the hall.

* * *

Isabel sat before her plate, the slices of beef and carrots and onions untouched and stone-cold. Daniel sat beside her at the kitchen table, picking at his food and shifting nervously. The silence in the room was heavy and uncomfortable; Isabel felt that one word spoken would cause the house to collapse around them.

She stole a glance at her husband. His eyes were cast down, his fingers twitching beside his plate. He hated this deathly quiet as much as she did; she could still read him.

"Bella," he said, suddenly turning to his startled wife. She raised her eyebrows and blinked in surprise.

"Yes?" she replied, quickly glancing at the ceiling to reassure herself that it was not going to cave in from the sound of his voice.

"Why is this so hard?"

Isabel folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead at the wall, holding her breath. It was a good question, one that deserved an answer. Why _was_ this hard? It had been years – too many years – since she had seen him, and despite everything, his presence did fill her with a certain warmth. Even now, with him so near, she felt the urges she'd had as a young bride… to grasp his hand, to ask for an embrace, to… God Almighty, she wanted to kiss him. Just a kiss. It had been so long that she barely remembered what the sensation felt like. She recalled dry lips on hers, moving slowly, steadily, thrills of heat shooting through her body… she blinked.

Such liberties should be easily taken with spouses, but she knew that the very idea of putting her mouth anywhere near Daniel's was impossible. He wouldn't know what to do. She wouldn't, either.

She shrugged in response to his question and he sighed quietly, staring at his plate again.

"Robert is gone, Bella."

Isabel leaned forward, searching her husband's profile in surprise. "What?"

"The fever took him." Daniel's eyes flicked between the floor and the ceiling. "I received your telegram the morning he… passed on. I must admit, his death is a large part of what prompted me to come here." His eyes slid shut and he crossed his arms over his chest, taking a deep breath. "If something were to happen to Thomas…" he opened his eyes and turned to face her. "I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to him and I wasn't here, Bella. I just couldn't."

She tried to ignore the sudden glistening of tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't give more of an explanation, Daniel. I felt so rushed… I was so confused and worried…" She rested her elbows on the table and placed her head in her hands, rubbing at her temples. "Forgive me."

Daniel shook his head. "I am grateful enough that you alerted me. Thank God he's alright. Everything is fine, Bella. There's no need for tears."

She wiped at her wet eyes. "How long are you here for?"

Daniel shrugged. "Until I am satisfied that he is fully recovered."

"Your interest in his well-being is rather sudden," Isabel snapped.

A hurt look passed over Daniel's face and she felt a tug of regret at her harsh tone.

"I'm sorry." She pushed herself away from the table and stood. "I know that isn't true."

"I know that you wish I wasn't here, Bella." Daniel avoided her gaze and instead focusing on a spot just over her shoulder. "I know that. And I know that my being here is startling and upsetting, but I am here now. Can't we make the best of it?"

"Yes, I suppose." She paused. "Daniel, pardon me if this sounds insensitive, but how is the company able to spare you when Robert has just passed on? Surely they cannot sacrifice two pairs of hands on such short notice."

"Isabel, the veils you throw over your attempts to be rid of me grow thinner and thinner." Daniel shook his head.

"It is an honest question, Daniel." Isabel felt her mouth twitch. "You did not… you have not…"

"What?"

"Has the position been… altered?"

"Not in the least. I was allowed to travel here to visit my ailing son, particularly when my own brother had passed on so recently. The powers that be, it seems, have some human decency in them."

"It was good of them." Isabel's voice had become a hoarse whisper. "Daniel…"

"Yes?"

"Where will you be sleeping?"

The question hung in the air.

"Would it be so horrific to share a bed with your husband, Isabel? Just in slumber?" The dejected expression on Daniel's face caused Isabel's heart to clinch. She looked away.

She heard Daniel sigh and move away from the table, towards the door. "I am sure I will be able to find a place to rest my head. I appreciate your concern."

Isabel didn't raise her eyes until she heard his footsteps fade away overhead.

* * *

"Liverpool?" Samantha's expression was one of utter confusion.

"Yes, he is a coal porter. I'm quite sure I've mentioned it before."

"Well, yes, certainly, but you never said that he was coming for a visit." Samantha smiled weakly. "How thoughtful of him."

"His appearance was a… surprise."

Samantha blinked. "So he has met Mr. Bertrand?"

"Oh, yes, he has met Mr. Bertrand."

"And how did that… go?"

"I think they shall grow to be very dear friends," Isabel said dryly, slumping back in her chair. Sunlight poured through the window in the library, bathing both women in its cheery brightness, and Isabel felt a distinct resentment towards it and all its merry warmth. "He and Nadir appear to be getting along rather well, though," she added.

"Yes, well, it is really rather easy to be in Nadir's company."

Isabel quirked an eyebrow at Samantha, and the younger woman's face flushed. "I mean… what I mean is… well, he is very pleasant to be around, and I…"

"Yes, I believe I know what you mean." Isabel let her head fall back against the chair and let out a long sigh. Earlier in the day, she and Nadir had exchanged quiet apologies for their argument. She still felt a glimmer of guilt over the entire incident, but at least now the tension between them had eased. "Samantha, I do not know what to do."

"How do you mean?" Samantha picked up a crumpet off the tray in front of her and began picking it apart absently, crumbs falling onto the lap of her dark blue skirts. Noticing the mess, she paused, brushing the crumbs onto the floor, gazing at them blankly for a moment, then resumed her picking.

Isabel stared at her for a moment before speaking. "You must understand, it has been many years since Daniel and I have been under the same roof. He left for Liverpool shortly before Thomas's third birthday… I have become so accustom to life without him, I am not entirely sure I will remember how to act around him."

"Do you act differently around your husband than you do around others?"

"I do." Isabel paused thoughtfully. "I do not think it that uncommon an occurrence, actually."

"How sad." Samantha picked up another crumpet and poked at it. "Do you know how long he's planning to stay?"

"Until he is satisfied that Thomas is well again."

"How long will that be?"

"I have no idea. Why are you being so vicious to my crumpets?"

Samantha looked down at her lap and examined the small pile of pastry-rubble that lay there. "Oh. Forgive me; I tend to shred things when my mind wanders."

"Indeed."

"I really don't think you have anything to worry about, Isabel. Chances are, Mr. Bertrand will ask Daniel to leave within a fortnight. Well, no, that's not right," Samantha added. "Mr. Bertrand will _tell_ Daniel to leave within a fortnight. Surely you can survive your husband that long."

Isabel remained quiet, staring at a crack in the ceiling.

"Can't you?"

"I suppose I could bear it, yes." She lowered her gaze to Samantha and offered a forced smile.

Samantha's brow furrowed. "Isabel, has he done something to you to make you so averse to him?"

Isabel laughed. "Things are not always that simple. There are times when I feel that my marriage was a mistake, that is all."

"Isabel!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Samantha. Get married yourself. Perhaps then you'll understand."

"I would hope that any marriage of mine would be long-lasting and loving."

Isabel cast Samantha an amused glance. "We all hope that. Sometimes it is simply not possible." She cleared her throat and gazed out the window.

Samantha seemed to sense Isabel's desire for a change of subject. Sweeping the crumbs off her skirts, she sat up straighter on her chair and smiled brightly. "Where is Thomas now?"

"Walking with his father. He wants Daniel to meet the horses."

"Oh, dear. Mr. Bertrand isn't about, is he? He seems very sensitive about matters concerning his… livestock."

"Mr. Bertrand has locked himself in his study. I have seen nothing of him since the evening Daniel arrived."

There was an awkward silence.

"Perhaps the muse is upon him," Samantha offered. "Being a composer and all."

"The muse. What utter rot. A man he finds mortally offensive invades his house. His maid is slacking in her duties due to her ill son, and his Persian friend keeps prying into his affairs. It is a small wonder that he is cooped up in his study. I would be."

Samantha gave her lap a final brush with her hand and looked up, scrutinizing Isabel openly.

"What?" Isabel groaned, leaning back in the chair and covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, it's nothing, really. Just…" she shifted, placing a finger on her chin and adopting a pensive expression. "Did you just defend Mr. Bertrand?"

Isabel stared straight ahead. "Oh, dear. Does this mean I'm going mad?"

"Probably. But I wouldn't worry." Samantha flashed a brilliant smile. "The way I understand it, you would be in good company."

* * *

_I know, it's been, like, a thousand years. Or six weeks. Whichever. The point is, it's been a terribly long time, and I'm sorry.  
Chat is, I am convinced, the reason the world goes 'round. Mad love._


	23. Twenty Two

**Chapter Twenty Two**

Mr. Bertrand did not make his presence known in the days that followed. Isabel saw him on only four separate occasions, and each time she passed him in the hallway, she was ignored. Though she could, on one level, understand his resentment of the situation into which he had suddenly been thrown, she felt herself growing more and more angry at his petulant behavior.

Daniel, on the other hand, was adapting to the situation very well. In fact, he showed, to Isabel's chagrin, no immediate plans to leave, even after Thomas was obviously on the mend. She supposed it made a certain amount of sense: after all, Daniel was not being exposed to Mr. Bertrand's unpleasantness, and the company was holding his job for him. Still, there were times when she felt very sure that he was simply trying to be an inconvenience. He would spend hours with Thomas, then come back into the house and stand in her way in the kitchen as she cooked, blocking the fire, peering over her shoulder as she chopped vegetables, critiquing her method of browning meat. She was beginning to develop permanent indents on her palms from her fists being clenched in frustration.

Nadir had proven to be of little use when it came to softening Mr. Bertrand's childish pouting. He simply did not appear to have the energy to put any effort into it; once or twice he had entered Mr. Bertrand's study and stayed for several minutes before the sound of raised voices began to seep through the door. After much probing, Nadir had offered a shrugged shoulder and a feeble, "He is not in the mood to talk, I am afraid."

Five days after Daniel's arrival, Isabel stood in the kitchen stirring thick porridge in the pot over the fire. The morning sun was rising, casting rays through the orchard and making the fruit trees look like silhouettes. She paused, gazing out the window and savoring the moment of peace.

"Excuse me."

Isabel spun around abruptly, wielding the porridge-covered spoon like a weapon at the sudden voice.

Mr. Bertrand stood several inches behind her, his posture impossibly erect, and stared at the spoon before him. A few specks of the hot meal had flung onto his lawn shirt and he released an irritated grunt as he wiped it off. Isabel glanced at the porridge dripping from the utensil and lowered it, raising her eyes sheepishly to Mr. Bertrand's.

"I have always said, Isabel, that you can tell a great deal about a woman from the way she holds her spoons."

Isabel stepped back and dropped the spoon back into the porridge, wiping her hands on her apron and avoiding his gaze. "Good morning, sir."

She heard a long-suffering sigh from the direction of her employer.

"Isabel—"

"I thought that perhaps you would enjoy a hot breakfast for once… I know that the morning meal is usually cold by the time you get it. I never have had a good sense of timing…"

"Isabel."

She raised her eyes slowly and locked on his. In the past few weeks, his skin had taken on a darker, healthier tone, his eyes shining a bit brighter than when she had first arrived. Now he looked pale and thin again – his clothes disheveled and hanging loosely off his frame. Despite his height, at the moment, he looked somewhat small, like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

She noticed a faint, foreign taste on her tongue and realized that she had been chewing on her lip. She touched her mouth carefully and examined her fingers, cringing as she saw the blood that had rubbed off on them. Turning away from him and reaching into her apron, she withdrew a small linen handkerchief and dabbed at the bloody lip, grateful for the few extra moments of silence between her and her employer.

"Isabel," he said again, stepping back as she turned to face him, "are you feeling quite well?"

Stuffing the bloodied linen back into her apron pocket, she leveled her gaze at him. "Very well, Mr. Bertrand. I hope you are the same."

"I am.…" he hesitated. Isabel, sensing a slight crack in his reserve, kept her eyes fixed on his face. His gaze was cast down on his bandaged hand. He held the palm open slightly, staring at it with the faintest hint of amusement touching his expression. "I am tolerable," he said softly, keeping his eyes off of hers.

She swallowed hard, the candidness of the moment pressing down on her. She felt quite certain that she could ask him anything right now and he would give her an honest answer. Somehow, the idea seemed somewhat terrifying.

"Your son seems well," he said, his gaze still downcast. Isabel opened her mouth to speak and he raised his eyes to meet hers, lifting his chin his usual dignified manner.

"Yes, he is doing much better. My husband is… well, they are taking great pleasure in each other's company." She cast her eyes around the room, looking for something else to say. "Thank you for… asking," she added, feeling ridiculous.

"I did not ask. I stated that he seemed well."

"Oh."

They stared at each other for a moment. Isabel knew the silence was awkward, but her mind was blank and she couldn't think of anything else to add.

"Mr. Bauer is, ah, enjoying his visit, then?" Mr. Bertrand's stance straightened and he once again became the imposing, indifferent man that Isabel knew.

"Very much so." As soon as the words escaped her lips, she knew he was displeased. His countenance darkened and his eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance.

"I see," he said shortly. "I regret that I will not be an amusing host. I have much business to attend to in my study." He turned to go.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Bertrand." Isabel chewed on her lower lip, wincing as she tasted the blood still there. "Mr. Bertrand," she called, desperate for their last words of the morning to be somewhat civil. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Indeed," he said briskly, striding towards the back door and holding a hand out to the handle. "I would be pleased if you could prepare a chicken for dinner this evening. I find myself craving the taste of late."

Isabel had realized, in recent days, just how often she stared at Mr. Bertrand with a blank expression on her face, and she knew at this moment, it was happening again. She blinked. "A chicken?"

"Yes, Mrs. Bauer, a chicken. An animal with a beak and feathers. It lays eggs and makes too much noise and tastes delicious with rosemary and garlic. A chicken."

"Does that mean that you will be joining Mr. Khan for dinner this evening?"

"Of course it does. Why would I not dine with Mr. Khan?" Turning on his heel, he left the room, shooting her a puzzled expression as if the last several days of silence had not occurred. He left Isabel with burning porridge and yet another bout of blank staring.

Sticking the spoon back into the pot of ruined porridge, she muttered darkly to herself.

"Bloody men."

* * *

Thomas had looked rather pale at lunch that afternoon, and Isabel had insisted that he stay in his room during supper. After tucking him into his bed – which he protested wearily until drifting off to sleep almost immediately – she reprimanded Daniel for wearing the child out so, especially while he was still recovering.

"Ah, Bella, come now. I've rarely seen him in such good form." Daniel grinned and reached up to Isabel's face, tugging at a lock of hair that had strayed from her bun. "You're becoming an old woman. Relax a little."

Isabel jerked her head away, intensely uncomfortable at the sudden intimacy of the contact. "You've _rarely seen him in such form?_ Daniel, you've rarely seen at all!"

The bright expression on her husband's face fell and she turned her attention back to the chicken simmering in a wine sauce on the stove. "Make yourself useful and set the table."

Not receiving an answer, she glanced behind her quizzically and saw Daniel stalking out of the room angrily. Rolling her eyes, she poked at the chicken unenthusiastically and allowed herself a sigh.

"Good afternoon."

Stifling a gasp, Isabel spun around and glared at Nadir. He stood in the doorway, looking surprised at her startled movement.

"Why does nobody in this house make a sound when they move about? I declare, it's like I am living with spirits, not people."

Nadir cracked a smile. "Yes, I believe I know what you mean."

Wiping her hands on her apron, Isabel forced a smile—although she was normally glad to see Nadir, his lingering looks between herself and Daniel had begun to irk her. He clearly did not believe that all was well between them, but his gentlemanlike manner prevented him from asking her blunt questions.

Thank God she thought.

"May I make myself of use in here? I fear that I am growing idle."

Her pained smile softened and she laughed. "I'm sure I can find something for you to do. Perhaps you would be so kind as to fill the kettle with water from the well? Unless tea is objectionable," she added hastily at his quizzical expression.

"Not at all," he assured her, crossing the room to where the kettle was sitting and picked it up gingerly. Isabel had begun placing the meal onto plates when he returned, placing the full kettle onto the fire and staring into the flames pensively.

"I feel that it has been too long since we had a talk," Isabel said, unable to bear the thick silence in the room any longer. Nadir looked up at her with a startled expression. A smile relaxed his face.

"As do I, Isabel. Tell me, if it is not too bold of me to ask, how are your husband and son getting on? It must be strange for them both, after such a lengthy absence." He paused, staring straight ahead. "Oh, dear. That _did_ sound rather bold, did it not? Forgive me."

Isabel smiled tightly. "Not at all. As a matter of fact, they appear to be getting along remarkably well. I am very glad of it, although I am not entirely convinced that Daniel appreciates the stress that Thomas's body has taken."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, he barely allows the child rest. Always going for walks or playing in the fields or bothering the horses… whatever it is that they do, it is difficult for Thomas to recover when he is being put under so much… physical…" she trailed off at Nadir's look of amusement. "What?"

"Oh, nothing, Isabel. It is only that you sound very much like a mother."

She blinked. "I _am _a mother."

"Oh, I know. Make no mistake, I am quite aware." His grin was disarming, and Isabel let her eyes narrow in amusement. "It is only… oh, how do I say… I have never seen you act so… well, so matronly before."

"Matronly!"

"Perhaps that is not the best word… but I have never seen you so protective of your son before. True, you have always been attentive and cautious, but you seem to worry about him more than before. Of course," he added, "it would make sense for you to do so, being as he was so desperately ill such a short time ago."

Isabel finished dishing out the meal and sniffed as elegantly as she was able."So his illness has turned me into an overprotective wretch of a mother, is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

Isabel would have spun around and glared at the man if the word had not been choked out amid hilarity – Nadir's rich laughter filled the room, and Isabel was grateful for it. She appreciated having someone in the house she was comfortable with – Thomas was too distracted by her husband, who in turn was completely absorbed with making up for lost time with his son to even take notice of her. Not that she particularly wanted Daniel's attentions turned towards her. Still, it would have been nice to get a greeting when she entered a room.

Nadir took the steaming kettle off the fire and poured some water into a mug that sat on the counter. "One for yourself, Isabel?"

"Yes, thank you. Oh, Mr. Bertrand told me this morning that he wishes to dine with you tonight. I assume he means in the library, though he did not specify."

Nadir's brow rose in surprise. "Decided that it is time to face humanity again, did he? Good."

Isabel hesitated, poking at the chicken on the plate before her disinterestedly. "Nadir, is Daniel the reason that Mr. Bertrand has sequestered himself away?"

"Oh, I am not sure." Nadir was suddenly entranced by the contents of his mug and refused to meet her eyes. "You know as well as I do that he sometimes develops… unsociable moods—"

Isabel snorted.

"To say the least," Nadir added.

"It is only…" she sighed, jabbing a fork against a chicken breast with unwarranted malice. "It is only that I feel as if I am trapping him in his own home. I want my son to be able to be with his father, but I want Mr. Bertrand's life to be uninterrupted."

Nadir's smile wavered for a moment. "Oh, perhaps some interruption would be good for him."

Isabel knew that it would be pointless to argue, so she simple sighed and stared at the rapidly-cooling plates of food. "If you would like, Nadir, you should meet him in the library and I will be there shortly with dinner."

Nadir rose, taking his mug with him. He paused in the doorway and turned back to Isabel, opening his mouth to speak. He hesitated, obviously considering his words carefully. "Isabel, I know you feel as if your family is intruding on Mr. Bertrand… and if I am honest with myself, perhaps I would be willing to admit that I do not think it the best idea for your husband to be here longer than necessary."

Isabel straightened, suddenly uncomfortable.

"I hate to make you feel as if your suspicions are right, and I certainly do not wish to make you feel… well, pressured, but perhaps for now it would be best if you made sure that Daniel and Erik were not… thrown together much."

"Mr. Bertrand has taken care of that quite well by himself," Isabel said dryly.

Nadir cracked another smile. "Yes, but what I mean is…"

"You want me to keep Daniel occupied?"

"If he ever becomes idle, yes. He seems to be amusing himself a great deal with your son, and I doubt that will soon be over. But additionally, perhaps you should… well… if he stays much longer, that is, you might try to encourage… ah…"

"That he return to Liverpool?"

Isabel was almost certain that she detected a blush coloring Nadir's dark skin while he answered in the affirmative. He excused himself quickly and Isabel stood still for several moments, suddenly overwhelmed by her situation. She looked around the empty kitchen, blinking back tears she felt ridiculous for forming, her mind heavy with this house, her employer, her ill son and her husband's presence.

Taking a deep breath to still the frantic sobs that threatened to emerge from her throat, she picked up two dinner plates and began the trek to the library.

She would let herself cry after the men were fed.

* * *

The weather on the following morning was warm and sunny, prompting Isabel to take Nadir's advice and keep Daniel as far from the house as possible. The dried fruit and tea were beginning to run low, so she used this as an excuse to suggest she and her family visit town. She insisted they walk the distance, despite Thomas's objections, knowing that by foot, the journey took many more hours and therefore removing Daniel from the house for as long as possible. She felt a bit guilty about this scheme – as if she were being devious and underhanded – but she knew that Nadir would not have had that talk with her the previous night if he had not felt very seriously about it. Thus, being as dear as he was to her, she was prepared to take his advice to heart.

The walk to town was, upon reflection, one of the strangest things Isabel had ever experienced. She continually glanced around her to see her husband and son walking side by side and the sight never failed to stun her momentarily. Thomas was laughing at a jest his father had made and Isabel smiled at the sound. For just a moment, she let herself feel content – happy even – that her family was together.

The town was bursting with busy people, all taking advantage of the good weather and socializing with their neighbors. Mr. Kern at the general store looked mildly surprised to see a strange man with Isabel and Thomas, but, ever the polite Englishman, he kept his comments to himself and simply handed over the dried fruits and teas that Isabel had requested. Daniel had suggested a tour of the small village, and Thomas obliged him eagerly.

"That's the apothecary, where Mr. Bertrand got the yarrow that made me better… and the church! We don't go there, but Mama says I'm welcome to go if I want… and that's the tailor's shop, where Mr. Sanders works…"

At the sound of the man's name, Isabel's head snapped up and she glanced at the shop. Sure enough, the beaming figure of Mr. Sanders emerged from its depths, coming out into the sunlight with both arms open.

"Mrs. Bauer! Mr. Thomas! And a new friend! I declare, this meeting has made today the _perfect_ day!"

Isabel quickly decided to forego formalities and offered a simple smile. "Mr. Sanders, please allow me to—"

"But why are you hiding back there, my dear boy? Come out and say hello!" Mr. Sanders peeked around Daniel's legs, seeking out Thomas. The child was doing his very best to hide from the tailor and Isabel was, in all honesty, rather impressed by his efforts.

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," Thomas squeaked out.

"Mr. Sanders," Isabel began again, holding a hand out to Daniel, "may I introduce you—"

"Oh, yes, my lady, please introduce me! My, that house of your masters' must be very full now. Are you an acquaintance of Mr… oh, what's his name, Mrs. Bauer? Bretcham? Bercham? Birchtree?"

"Bertrand, Mr. Sanders. Erik Bertrand."

"That's the ticket! Bertrand. Sort of an unpleasant fellow, isn't he? Doesn't like Botticelli, does he? That's the impression I got."

Daniel looked absolutely bewildered by the conversation and was making no attempt whatsoever to include himself in it. He stared at Mr. Sanders with undisguised fascination and was making what appeared to Isabel to be an unconscious effort to shield Thomas from the short, chattering man before him.

"He… I really do not know his opinion on the subject, Mr. Sanders, but nevertheless, this is _not_ a friend of Mr. Bertrand's. He—"

"Oh, he isn't? How extraordinary. Mr. Bertrand must, in that case, be a kind soul to extend invitations to those outside his circle of acquaintance. Oh, Mrs. Bauer, before I forget, do you know, I read the most delightful poem the other day and it made me think of you immediately." He cleared his throat and shut his eyes in concentration. "_Fair Isabel, poor, simple Isabel! Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye—_"

"My husband!" Isabel snapped, thoroughly mortified and infuriated. "This is my husband, Daniel Bauer."

Mr. Sander's face blanched into near transparency. His every muscle seemed to give way and he swayed slightly, prompting Isabel to move forward and lay a hand on his arm to offer support.

"Mr. Sanders, are you well?"

For the first time in their acquaintance, Timothy Sanders was at a loss for words.

Isabel glanced at Daniel, who was now eyeing the man with distinct distaste. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said gruffly, sticking a calloused hand out.

Mr. Sanders stared at the proffered hand dejectedly, making no move to take it. Daniel hastily withdrew it and returned it to his side, reaching out his other hand and placing it gently on Isabel's arm. "Perhaps we should return to the house, Bella," he said softly.

"Yes," Isabel said, still gazing at Mr. Sanders. His entire body seemed deflated and she was suddenly worried for him. Daniel, however, appeared to think that the man was a danger. He was nudging Thomas away and grasping at her arm lightly in an attempt to pull her back.

Casting a goodbye to Mr. Sanders, which was met with silence, she turned back to Daniel. He was glancing behind him nervously and tapping Thomas on the back, indicating his desire for an increase in the speed of their departure.

When they were well out of earshot, he turned to Isabel and hissed, "Is that man quite sane?"

"Oh, he simply… well, he appeared to have taken something of a… he…"

"He was reciting poetry to you in the middle of the street, Isabel! You cannot tell me that is the act of a man who has a firm grip on his sanity!"

'Oh, Daniel, Mr. Sanders is irritating, to be sure, but I am quite certain that he is harmless."

"Is he in love with you?"

Isabel stopped short, staring at Daniel with an expression of pure shock. "In love with…" she turned to Thomas. "Run along ahead, darling."

Thomas shot his mother a pout before tearing off down the road.

Turning back to Daniel, Isabel narrowed her eyes. "Daniel, whether Mr. Sanders has particular feelings for me is really no concern of yours."

"You're my wife!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes searching hers desperately.

"I'm aware," she said dryly. "I am not, however, entirely certain that he knew I was married."

Daniel's eyes widened in surprise at the statement. "How could it have never come up?"

"I don't know, Daniel," she said exasperatedly. "It isn't as if you're an occurrence in my day-to-day life."

A pained look crossing his face, Daniel began walking again, not bothering to continue the conversation. They walked in silence for several minutes, the tension in the air palpable.

"And how many others are there, Isabel?"

Isabel sighed. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, if you have a whole string of suitors to keep you amused while I am away—"

"Oh, Daniel, do not be ridiculous! In case you need reminding, _I_ am the one—"

"Mama! I'm lonely!" Thomas stood in the middle of the road, several yards ahead of them, a look of grim dissatisfaction settled on his face.

Daniel laughed and bounded forward, sweeping his son up in his arms and hastening his way down the winding road. Gazing at the two ahead of her, she felt a longing to visit with Samantha, to share some of the weight on her mind with a sympathetic female. She paused in her footsteps and considered. She knew the Foresters lived not even half a mile from the town… she could turn around now and be there in less than an hour. She had never called on Samantha before; the change of scenery might do her good. And the idea of returning to the house, full to the brim with only men… she shuddered.

"Daniel!" she called, and the two stopped. They both turned to look at her.

"Yes?" he called back, squinting to see her clearly.

"I have just remembered an appointment I have… I have to go back. I shouldn't be more than a few hours."

Daniel and Thomas glanced at each other and shrugged. "Very well, then," Daniel shouted, turning back to the road and tugging Thomas along with him.

Once she felt comfortable with the distance between them, Isabel turned the other direction, hitched up her skirts and ran down the road.

* * *

"Can't see how they would complain if you make yourself useful," Samantha said uncertainly. Isabel's sudden appearance at the door had surprised her greatly, and she was still recovering from the shock.

"Naturally. What is it that you are doing?"

"Me? I was preparing the garden, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Forester claims to have a keen interest in gardening, although I've never seen her do so much as pick up a hoe in my life. It's the same every year, though. I prepare the beds and Betsy plants the flowers." She brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there.

Isabel smiled. "Have you a spare apron I might borrow, then? I only needed to talk to someone for a few moments, but I would be more than happy to help if I can."

Samantha's face colored slightly, but she disappeared into the house and returned promptly holding out a woebegone apron, which Isabel tied around herself.

Handing her companion a spade, Samantha sank to her knees on the moist ground again and began tilling the earth carefully. "Now," she said, "what is it that is on your mind?"

Isabel hacked away at the ground half-heartedly. "Oh, I hardly know. I am unsettled by my husband's presence, I am unsettled by the obvious joy my son takes in my husband's presence, I am unsettled by the obvious _lack_ of joy my employer takes in it… Samantha, I feel s if my head is a whirling dervish and I can not explain why I feel so."

"Well, to address each subject separately… of _course_ you're unused to Daniel being there. It has been quite a few years, has it not? And it would be only natural for Thomas to rejoice in his father's attention. I would be worried if he was anything but happy about it. And nothing will ever make Mr. Bertrand happy as long as he lives, so I would not waste my energy thinking about it. As for the dervish that is your mind," Samantha shot Isabel a wry grin, "well, it seems to have served you well thus far. And we cannot alter the way we perceive the world, only the way it sees us."

"There is more." Isabel paused, considering her words. "Nadir has made it clear that Daniel should not dally about. He should leave as soon as possible."

"But you already knew that." Samantha paused. "Nadir said that?"

"Yes, Nadir. Which is why it struck me with such surprise. He is so accommodating normally… I know that insisting on this one thing must have caused him some pain. That is how I am sure that it is important."

Samantha busied herself with the spade once more, but Isabel detected another rise in his color.

"Samantha," she said quietly.

The young woman raised her eyes slowly to meet Isabel's, her expression carefully blank. "Yes?"

"Why is it that you flush whenever I mention Nadir?"

Samantha's face instantly turned crimson and she lowered her head, gazing at the ground intently. "I am sure that you must be mistaken," she snipped, stabbing at the tilled ground fervently.

"Oh, Samantha," Isabel said crossly, wiping her soiled hands onto her already-filthy apron. "Do stop lying to yourself."

Samantha's breath hitched. "Pardon?"

"It is obvious that you care for the fellow. I promise, you will feel much better if you only admit it."

"I…" Samantha's hand slowly rose to her chest and she swallowed painfully; Isabel could hear the young woman's throat gulping from where she stood. "I am sure that I do not know… what… know what…"

"Samantha," Isabel snapped, tugging at her apron angrily, "part of being an adult is learning to acknowledge that which we would rather not."

Samantha's face took on a slightly hysterical expression. "Then I do not want to be an adult!"

The two women stared at each other silently for a moment. Isabel, perhaps for the first time, scrutinized the young woman before her. Her pretty face was set in a look of terror mixed with relief, her blue eyes wide and unblinking. Blonde curls were rapidly escaping the confines of their chignon and framing her flushed face like a halo; indeed, Isabel realized, if Samantha were not covered in dirt and grime at the moment, she could easily be mistaken for an angel.

Reaching around behind her to untie the apron, Isabel smiled down at Samantha.

"I should be going. I fear it is not safe to leave Mr. Bertrand in the same house as Daniel without me there to intercede, lest there be a brawl."

Samantha's tense expression eased, and she smiled slightly. "Yes, you are probably right."

Folding up the apron and placing it on a bench beside the tilled plot, Isabel picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. "You should come by the house, Samantha. Perhaps for dinner."

Samantha dropped her eyes and nodded. "I will be sure to do that. Good day, Isabel."

Isabel stepped out of sight of Samantha and started down the road, humming to herself quietly. Stopping, she turned around and peered intently at the distant figure behind her.

Samantha was sitting in her patch of tilled earth, staring at her dirty hands and, despite the distance between them, Isabel could very distinctly detect a shy smile playing on the young woman's lips.

Turning back to the road, Isabel found herself grinning as well.

* * *

_I had to stick some bolts into its neck and wait for a good lightning storm, but Sanc seems to have been resurrected.  
As always, warm, misty-eyed thanks to Chat for being so supportive and honest and all things good.  
To all the people who nagged me and asked for an update and told me how much they liked Sanc... my most sincere thanks. Really. You have no idea.  
Blessings all around!  
_


	24. Twenty Three

**Chapter Twenty Three**

A thin strip of light poured through a gap in the curtains covering Isabel's window, hitting her directly in the eye. Groaning, she turned over, wrapping her blankets around herself tighter. It occurred to her, through the thick fog of sleep, that she had overslept, but she wasn't prepared to sacrifice the comfort of her bed just yet. The feeling of the soft sheets against her skin was too delicious to relinquish, and she sighed contently into her pillow.

Sleep was claiming her once more when a loud _bang_ sounded behind her. She jerked her head up and quickly yanked her blankets around her.

"Daniel," she breathed, irritated at the intrusion. Her husband stood at the room's entrance, one hand still on the doorknob. He looked rather embarrassed to find her in bed and still in her shift, but an annoyed expression flickering across his face indicated his quick recovery.

"It's after seven, Bella. Surely Mr. Bertrand will not be pleased if you shirk."

Isabel had thrown the pillow at Daniel before she even realized what she was doing. As soon as it hit him square on the head, he stumbled backwards and she clapped a hand to her mouth in shock.

"Oh, Daniel! Are you alright?"

Her husband stared at the offending pillow, now lying innocently on the floor, with a sort of blank horror before turning his bewildered gaze to his wife.

Isabel lifted the covers up to her face to cover her grin – Daniel's nonplussed reaction was striking her as unreasonably funny and she didn't want to offend him by bursting out in laughter.

He looked at her sharply and she couldn't resist it any longer: she snorted into her bedclothes and fell back onto the bed, covering her head in blankets as she let out peals of laughter. She suddenly felt something soft collide with her side and realized that Daniel had pitched the pillow back at her. She felt around for it and threw it back at him, burrowing deeper under the covers. She felt the soft weight hit her again and she threw her blankets off, grabbing her other pillow and thwapping her husband in the head with it. He let out a startled gasp and ducked around the side of the bed, flinging his down-filled weapon at her with vigor.

"You… are… acting… like… a… child!" she choked out amidst the battle and her hysterics.

"You started it!" he retorted, aiming a particularly good blow at her chest.

Isabel shrieked at the hit and peeked at Daniel from under her covers, waving a hand around in the air. "I forfeit! You win!"

Daniel collapsed on the bed and attempted a glare at his wife. Isabel buried her grin in her blankets and let out one last string of giggles. Peeking from behind the sheets, her breath caught at Daniel's expression.

He was gazing at her with a tenderness she was wholly unaccustomed to and she felt her skin heat with embarrassment. She felt her muscles stiffen and she shut her eyes, turning her head away. "Daniel..."

"Shh," he whispered hoarsely. Slowly, he lifted a hand, hesitated, and gently touched her jaw line with his fingertips. "Do you remember when I asked you, Bella?"

"Asked me what?" she said softly, distracted by his finger's light movements.

"Asked you to marry me."

Her eyes opened at his words. "Yes," she replied, her voice barely audible. "I remember."

He smiled. "Nineteen and the quickest wit in the county." He paused, his fingers stilling their careful caresses. "You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."

Isabel was surprised to feel another blush creep up her face. She would have normally shaken off such a statement off, but this intimate interaction was giving her more pleasure than she was willing to admit. She had forgotten how simple it could be, touching and talking and remembering. She smiled.

"I was not. Anne Goodman was the local beauty. I remember overhearing the village boys discuss her in very ungentlemanly ways."

Daniel grinned. "Yes," he said. "She was a handsome girl, to be sure. But she never held a candle to you, as far as I thought."

A memory floated into Isabel's mind and she started laughing again. "You wanted your proposal to be so romantic and perfect… and yet, somehow, we wound up lost in the woods, covered in mud and very nearly faint from lack of food."

Daniel's smile turned sheepish. "I was trying to find the perfect spot, as you very well know. I simply became nervous and couldn't remember exactly where the right clearing was."

"So you stop in the middle of the forest, kneel into a pile of deer droppings and propose."

"Yes, well, I figured it was as good a place as any, at that point. Anyway, I reckoned it'd make a good story to tell to our children."

His last statement threw Isabel back into the present. Pulling her head away from his fingers, she cleared her throat. "You're right. It's late; best start the day now." With a look of regret, Daniel withdrew his hand and rose from the bed.

"Of course."

A sudden movement at the open doorway grabbed both of their attention and they simultaneously turned their heads towards it.

Thomas stood there quietly, his hand resting on the doorknob, a look of surprise on his face.

There was a moment of silent staring between the three that Isabel found nearly unbearable.

"Been up long, son?" Daniel strode over to Thomas and gently guided him from the room. "Mama needs to get dressed now; we best leave her to it."

As her husband turned to shut the door, Isabel noticed (with a hint of relief), that he made no attempt to meet her eyes.

* * *

Erik gently ran a finger down the page of music before him. The piano he sat at remained untouched – he hadn't played it in weeks, preferring to simply arrange the notes in his head. He had no desire to share any music with the other members of the household. He groaned, pulling his hand from the paper and running it through his hair agitatedly. Not for the first time, he sorely missed the secluded confines of his underground home. The soothing sound of the water lapping against the stone floor, the endless labyrinth of tunnels and passages, even the comforting restriction of the coffin he had slept in.

At the thought of that narrow box, Erik released a shudder and brought his elbows down onto the piano heavily, resting his forehead in his palms. The keys shrieked under his weight and the angry noise resonated in the room for a moment, throbbing in his ears.

"What a dramatic fool you have been," he muttered, rubbing at his sore eyes. God, but he wanted to be alone. He had managed to avoid Isabel and her… attachments, but Nadir seemed to have taken an oath to protect Erik from himself and was therefore appearing at his side at any given moment. It was beginning to irk him unimaginably.

Straightening himself, he took a pen and dipped it carefully into the inkwell sitting beside the paper. Crossing out a few lines, he let his shoulders slump and rolled his head back, wincing as he felt a muscle protest. Bringing his hand up, he rubbed the spot gently, working the soreness out of it. He ran the hand through his hair, irritated by the feel of the bandage still covering it and, drawing the injured hand in front of him, he took hold of the tightly-wound cloth and began unwrapping it from around his palm slowly. After several seconds, it fell away and he gazed at his open palm, now healed, a thin scar crossing it horizontally. The red strip of raised flesh was still tender to the touch, and he surprised himself by shuddering as he felt a flicker of pain shoot up his arm as he pressed a finger to it. He would still have to be careful with it. Somehow, that thought depressed him.

A faint rattle sounded outside the window on the other side of the study and he focused his eyes towards it. A thick velvet curtain hung over the window, blocking out all possible sunlight; the dreary dimness of the room suddenly startled him and he stood from his seat, striding to the window and throwing the drape open.

The room lit instantly: Bright sunshine pouring in through the glass panes and basking him in its rays. His eyes slid shut as the exposed side of his face warmed with the sun's rays; he took an immeasurable pleasure in the sensation. He opened his eyes once more and gazed out of the window, watching a bird flit around the tree before him, hopping from one branch to another with comical speed.

He saw a movement from the corner of his eye and he glanced towards it: Daniel Bauer was striding towards the orchard, his head held high, his back erect. Erik's eyes instantly narrowed. The man, while perfectly polite to him on the very rare occasion when they met, had an irritating air about him, a sort of misplaced confidence that grated on Erik's nerves. He had been observing both Daniel and Isabel closely – more closely than either of them realized – and found their situation most puzzling. The husband seemed content enough, particularly when in the presence of his son. Whenever Isabel entered the room, however, the man's demeanor changed. He gazed at her with a wistful expression that would have been comical if it hadn't been so pathetic, and the moment she had disappeared from sight, he would release a long, loud sigh, that ridiculously regretful look not leaving his face for several minutes.

Isabel, however, seemed utterly indifferent towards her husband, if not slightly unnerved by him. Ever since he first learned of their long period of separation, Erik had suspected some form of abuse being involved, but he could see clearly now that Daniel Bauer was not a violent man – indeed, given his knowledge of and experiences with the woman, Erik was confident that if man and wife had ever found themselves in a brawl of any sort, Isabel would have triumphed quite easily. Her husband was larger than her, to be sure, but he simply appeared too meek to put up any sort of fight, whereas Isabel would most likely kick and bite her way to victory.

Yes, however bothersome he may be, Daniel Bauer did not strike Erik as the sort of man who would raise a hand to his wife.

There were, of course, other varieties of abuse that humans applied to each other. He knew _that_ only too well.

His mother's face flickered in his mind.

He rolled his shoulders as he let the curtain fall back into place, the room once more shrouded in darkness.

No, that was not likely, either. The simpering man who Isabel had, for whatever reason, married did not appear to possess enough intellect to be much of a psychological torturer. Again, Isabel seemed to have the upper hand over her husband.

Erik muttered a curse at the heaviness that had settled in his chest and he silently stalked back over to the piano, seating himself and picking his pen back up, making some notations on the page before him. He hardly noticed what he was writing; he simply needed a momentary distraction while he gathered his scattered thoughts together.

He stared at the ink-blotted paper for several silent minutes, reveling in the clearness of his mind, when someone shattered the peace by knocking on his door.

Still seated, he felt an unreasonable rage grow in his chest – dwelling on the comforts of the opera house's cellar had been an idiotic thing to do: He was now thoroughly weary of this new home, this new life, this new country. A shock of longing blazed through him at the thought of Paris and he barely suppressed a groan for want of it.

Another knock, louder this time, came from the door and he rose from his seat in agitation, striding to the entrance and pulling the door open violently. "_What?"_ he snapped.

Two jade eyes stared at him in surprised silence and, after a tense moment, blinked slowly, their owner apparently waiting for Erik's anger to abate.

"What is it, daroga?"

Nadir quickly glanced over Erik's appearance, taking in his ink-stained hands and wrinkled, soiled clothes with a critical eye.

"Isabel has served lunch and asked if you were going to partake of any of it. Your appetite has been rather sporadic these past few days, so I told her that I would come and ask you myself." His gaze rested on Erik's eyes. "I can see, however, that I am interrupting a conclave with your muse."

"My muse deserted me, in case you have forgotten," Erik hissed, turning his back on the Persian and returning to his instrument.

Nadir allowed his eyes to roll while he muttered a quiet oath under his breath. "Always a flair for drama, Erik. Perhaps you _do_ belong in an opera house." He paused. "Although I maintain that the torture chamber was unnecessary."

"It proved useful." Erik smiled grimly at the keys in front of him, flicking a speck of dust off of the ivory.

Nadir released a sigh. "Given your obvious state of distress, I will choose to ignore that statement. Now, come, eat some food. For my sake."

"I am in no mood to humor you, Nadir."

"You are very rarely in a mood to humor anybody, my friend," Nadir said with a laugh.

Erik turned to face him, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes narrowed to slits. "How much longer are you planning on remaining here, daroga?"

Nadir sobered instantly. "Do you wish me to leave?"

"Perhaps."

The two men held each other's gaze for a long moment.

"I cannot go."

Erik gritted his teeth together so tightly that his jaw ached. With deliberate slowness, he rose from his seat and approached Nadir.

The daroga was not a particularly imposing man, yet he showed no intimidation in his eyes as Erik approached him. The masked man's taller stature was somewhat diminished by the severe thinness of his body, but still, he towered over Nadir and leaned in closely, his face mere inches from the Persian's.

"Nadir, you should not be here. Your presence is beginning to cross the line of irritating into infuriating, and you are well aware of how I am when angry."

Nadir simply stared back at him, a cool expression of unconcern on his face.

"Well?" Erik barked.

"Erik, I am not going to leave you alone now. It is simply not possible."

Erik gazed at Nadir, his anger quickly melting into indignation. "Why the devil not?"

The daroga shrugged. "Think back at what happened the last time I left you, my friend. Indeed, bearing that in mind, I may never let you out of my sight again."

"The last time you _left me_, as you put it, I traveled through Asia and Europe! I aided in the creation of an opera house, the likeness of which has never been seen before!"

"While running yourself mad, Erik! You ran yourself utterly mad! Human beings cannot shut themselves away from the world like you tried! We need each other – each one of us needs another person to connect to, to confide in and comfort. I will not let what happened to you happen again – I tell you, I will not allow it!"

Any antipathetic feelings that lingered in Erik's mind dissipated as Nadir's words were spoken. His will to argue had been destroyed by the raw emotion that the man before him was showing, the determined lines etched deep in the dark skin of his face. Once more, he simply did not understand. Perhaps neither of them did.

When Erik gathered his wits enough to respond, his voice was low and hoarse.

"Why do you bother, Nadir?"

The Persian's expression was firm in its resolve. "I said it once, Erik, and I will say it again: you have the distinct ability to excel beyond any other man, dead or alive."

Erik snorted.

"Believe what you must, my friend," Nadir said, "but I speak the truth. I cannot stand by and watch that unique genius go to waste. I simply cannot."

Erik smiled sadly. "Nadir, I do not believe that I have any genius left to give."

"Nonesense," the Persian said dismissively. "I am sympathetic to your pain, Erik, but remember that I, too, have lost the woman I loved, and yet I have managed to forge on. And I am nowhere as near as strong in spirit as you. No, I am confident that a chorus girl, as lovely as she may be, is not enough to rob you of all your senses, despite… er… events which may make that appear to be the case."

* * *

As the voices grew soft and footsteps sounded from inside the room, Isabel felt a stab of panic. She picked up her skirts and made a mad dash across the hall, running up the stairs to the third floor as quietly as her heavy-soled shoes would allow.

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, exactly, but she knew Nadir had gone to speak with Mr. Bertrand: when neither man had come down for their meal, she was overcome with curiosity and went upstairs to see what was causing the delay.

The door to Mr. Bertrand's study was ajar and the two men's voices were low, rapidly speaking in French. She could make out a few of the words exchanged – the lady's maid to Mrs. Northing had been French, and Isabel had gleaned bits and pieces of the language over the years at Weatherby. Not that she needed to translate the conversation – Mr. Bertrand's angry tone was enough to tell her that he had sunk back into a black mood, one that even Nadir may not be able to drag him out of. As she was turning to go back downstairs and enjoy a quiet lunch with Thomas, she made out a sentence quite clearly that had caught her attention.

"_Why do you bother, Nadir?"_

It was a question she had pondered herself many times.

Nadir refused to go into any sort of detail regarding his relationship with Mr. Bertrand. She knew how their friendship had begun – he had told her of the shah's demand that the masked man be brought to Persia, sending Nadir to Russia to collect him – but beyond that, he had always been carefully vague. Mr. Bertrand had stayed a few years in Persia, then had left for some unknown reason, apparently going back to his native France and doing heaven knows what. _Brooding, most likely, _Isabel thought, walking over to the window in her room and lifting the lace curtain to gaze out at the orchard.

So. Nadir Khan and Erik Bertrand had known each other for many years. According to comments Nadir had made to her, Mr. Bertrand was not, in fact, named Mr. Bertrand, and he had been an easily irritated, violently-tempered, slightly dangerous figure for a very long time.

Why, then, _did_ Nadir bother? Clearly there was no changing this leopard's spots, and the Persian, of all people, would know that. Yet he still reached out, extended the hand of friendship nearly every day, only to be rejected, usually with a sarcastic snap, by Mr. Bertrand.

Unfortunately, Isabel's French was far too rusty to be able to translate what Nadir's response had been, so she was still quite at a loss.

She was about to tear her gaze from the cherry trees, now weighed down with ripening fruit, when Daniel strode into view. She felt a sigh grow in her throat. He had approached her earlier in the day and informed her rather brusquely that he was "going out on business". Slightly bewildered at this seemingly pointless announcement, Isabel had nodded and wished him joy in his exploit.

He paused beneath one of the fruit trees and selected a particularly red cherry, holding it up against the sun and smiling. Lowering it, he popped it in his mouth and chewed, wincing suddenly.

"They have pits, dear," Isabel muttered, snorting at his pained expression.

Spitting the pit out, Daniel continued on his way down the orchard's path, his smile entirely too self-satisfied for Isabel's liking.

"What on earth are you up to?" she breathed, narrowing her eyes as his figure disappeared from view.

* * *

_Sorry for the shortness; I've already started the next chapter and hope to have it done semi-soon.  
Chocolate-covered Brettishness to Chat for her tireless spiffyality. Hip, funny and helpful. What more could an author ask for?  
I adore each and every review I get, and I thank you most humbly for them. Cheers!_  



	25. Twenty Four

**Chapter Twenty Four**

"I _know_ they have pits, Isabel."

"Then why do you still look startled whenever you bite into one?"

"No particular reason."

Isabel snorted, pausing to examine the paring knife she used to halve the cherries. The blade was too dull for this task: It kept slipping from her grip and nearly slicing her thumb in half. She waved it towards Daniel, ignoring the alarmed look on his face as his wife brandished a weapon at him. "Could you take care of this? The sharpening stone is in the drawer beside the basin. And stop eating the cherries; I barely have enough to can as it is."

Daniel grunted a reply and took the knife from her, walking rather languidly across the room.

"Mama, where's Nadir?"

Isabel flicked her eyes towards her son. He was sitting on the floor beneath the table, scraps of lead-smudged paper spread around him. He had taken to drawing again, such as it was. Unintelligible as his creations were, both Isabel and Daniel had been assured by the artist that they were, actually, portraits of his parents; nonetheless he was rather offended by their lack of recognition. Waiting for Daniel to finish sharpening her knife, Isabel picked up the picture of herself that Thomas had drawn and squinted, trying to see some sliver of her likeness in the mess of lines and curves. She turned the paper to the left, to the right, upside down. No, it was pointless. In no position did this drawing look anything akin to a human being. She laid it down where it was and turned back to Thomas.

"He and Mr. Bertrand went for a walk. I told you that this morning."

A pout formed on Thomas's mouth and he scribbled on the paper in front of him vigorously. "He hasn't read to me at all since Papa got here."

The sounds of metal scraping against stone ceased and Isabel shot Daniel a furtive glance. He had paused in his task and was gazing at Thomas with unconcealed hurt, his mouth turned down into a frown and his eyes wide and round – the very expression his son's face assumed every time his feelings were injured.

Suppressing a sigh, Isabel rose from her chair and moved to the back door. "I should go tend to Loki and Bell…Bell…"

"Bellerophon," Thomas quipped.

"Yes, Bellerophon. I am not certain if Mr. Bertrand saw to them this morning, and I would hate for them to be neglected." She untied her apron and hung it over the back of the chair. "They are not getting much use lately, I fear."

Daniel resumed his task, the scraping sounds the only noise in the room.

Focusing on her husband squarely, Isabel drew a breath, startled to feel it shaking in her chest. They had to talk now. She knew it, and he certainly must as well. And yet the idea of speaking frankly about their situation was so terrifying, she could feel the blood draining from her face at the mere thought of it.

"Daniel, could you come with me?"

He stopped his movements and raised his brow, looking suspicious. She jerked her head towards the door, indicating that he follow her.

Setting the stone and knife down, he nodded to Thomas and strode outside, Isabel firmly shutting the door behind them.

"Need some help with the horses, Bella?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I need to talk to you."

He tilted his head. "What about?"

Isabel stared at his questioning expression with utter disbelief. "About this very strange arrangement that we find ourselves in."

Daniel rolled his eyes and focused his just over Isabel's shoulder. "About me being here."

"Yes, of course about you being here!"

"I have to say, Bella, it's going much better than I thought it would." He gazed up at the sky, a lock of his hair falling in his eyes in an infuriatingly endearing way. "My God, how Tom has grown. And you've done an admirable job with him, as well. He's a smart one, all right. Always eager to learn, eyes always open. I'm proud." His smile never wavered.

Isabel felt her mouth twitch; he wasn't going to make this easy.

"Daniel, surely you know what I have to say." She waved a hand to assure his attention and when he finally turned his mournful gaze onto her, she felt guilt building inside her chest, threatening to wreck her resolve.

Daniel sighed and sat himself on a chopping block beside the house.

"No, I won't claim that I _do_ know what you're going to say, Isabel." He rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Can't say that's a new occurrence."

Isabel set her hands firmly on her hips, pointedly ignoring his tone. "Daniel, even if it was just me and Thomas again, you know that this wouldn't work. We have an arrangement, and it can't be broken now. _Especially_ now. This isn't even our home. You cannot just settle down at a gentleman's estate because the mood strikes you."

"I am not _settling down," _he snapped. "And even if I were, it would hardly be at random. My son happens to be here, as does my wife."

"Mr. Bertrand hardly puts up with Thomas, Daniel, I cannot possibly expect him to welcome you now! I receive a phenomenally generous salary from him and I cannot afford – no, _we_ cannot afford – to put ourselves into the jeopardy that your staying would entail."

"So if I care for my family, I will leave you alone."

Isabel approached Daniel slowly, dropping to her knees and placing a hand on his leg gently. "In a manner of speaking. Please, Daniel, I don't want you to think that I am just desperate to be rid of you. Please tell me that you understand."

Daniel's gaze stood fixed on Isabel's hand upon his leg. "Bella, after we get a good amount saved, I think we should..." he glanced at her face, his expression quite blank.

Isabel felt a cold shiver run through her. "No, Daniel."

He rose from the stump and began pacing in front of her. "No, I suppose not. But I want you to think about it. Nothing too soon... maybe next year. I think that we deserve to try again. Thomas certainly deserves it."

"Yes, perhaps next year we can discuss it." She felt sick; she needed to stop this conversation.

Daniel stopped his pacing and turned to gaze at her. Isabel stared at the ground, still kneeling beside the stump, a hand on her stomach in a feeble attempt to ease the discomfort raging there.

"But we won't, will we? We will never discuss it, and if I ever show my face here again, you'll rush me out as soon as possible. You're _not_ desperate to be rid of me, not yet. If you were, you wouldn't bother with this ridiculous game of making sure my feelings weren't injured." He sank to a squatting position, level with her. "I know you don't care for me anymore, Bella, but surely you can see how it would benefit all of us to live together again? I have selfish reasons for wanting it, of course. Now that Robert is gone, I know how lonely it will be in Liverpool."

Isabel rose from the ground and dusted off her apron. "No," she said firmly. "No. I am sorry, Daniel, but I cannot consider it. I do not like asking you this, but I have to." She shut her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Opening her eyes again, she fixed her husband with a firm gaze. "Please return to Liverpool."

Daniel's entire body sagged at her words. He glanced at her sadly and gave a small nod, walking past her and entering the house. Isabel stood perfectly still until after she heard the door click shut.

After Daniel's footsteps faded off into the house, went to the side of the house and let her body rest against it, biting her lip so hard she could taste blood.

* * *

Erik sank onto the pile of hay inside the stable's door slowly, wincing at the dull pain in his back as he settled into the makeshift seat. Bellerophon stared at him with his large, mournful eyes, his head tilted to one side as if in sympathy. Erik smiled grimly at the creature, releasing a sigh. The air in the stable was cool and stale, tinged with the manure that desperately needed to be cleared from the stalls. His gaze rose to the ceiling and the spider and cobwebs covering it, the thread dewy and heavy from the moisture seeping into the building. His eyes narrowed in annoyance: he would have to hunt around the structure to find the leak. He briefly considered finding fault in Britain's lumber or metalworking before begrudgingly admitting to himself that he simply must have missed a spot.

"Oh, the palaces I built," he murmured, his eyes sliding shut again as a wave of fatigue swept through him. "Not palaces, _kingdoms._" He fixed Bellerophon a hard stare. "And now I cannot create a simple stable to protect _animals._"

Bellerophon shook his head out.

"I was once called Genius," Erik said softly. "A God-send with a demon's face and the voice of an angel." His lips parted in a small smile. "I half-wish my teachers could see me now. Giovanni would be beside himself with rage." He let out a laugh at the idea of his former tutor throwing a tantrum.

"_You do not build from your mind, Erik, you build from your heart! You know this! You knew it before you came to me, so why do you act as if it is foreign to you? Do not _look_ at the structure. _Feel_ it." _

"Feel it," Erik whispered.

Loki suddenly made a loud whinny and pawed the ground nervously. Erik glanced up as a crack of thundered exploded overhead; the dapple horse had been sensitive to storms ever since his escape. Erik considered it more than likely that lightning had struck near him, causing some sort of permanent psychological scar. Erik grinned now.

"We have something in common, Loki!"

The horse snorted.

The door beside Erik slid open, casting the room in a brief glow as a flash of lightning lit the sky outside. A figure stepped inside, shaking a few droplets of water out of their hair, and Erik assessed them as one of the men currently dwelling in his house. He groaned inwardly: Nadir was obviously trying to seek him out again in order to draw out Erik's innermost demons and thereby rescue him from the hapless damage he was inflicting onto himself. Really, tenacity was normally a trait to be admired, but the man really was pushing this one a bit too far.

The person didn't bother to observe his surroundings, merely sliding the door half-shut behind him and approaching the stalls quickly.

"You up for it?" he said quietly, patting Bellerophon on the neck. His voice was gruff, his accent Southern with just a touch of cockney. Erik narrowed his eyes again.

"A little rain won't bother you, will it? We'll be back before you can say... before you can say... well..."

"Anything, I would imagine," Erik said dryly, causing the man to jump and spin around, a guilty expression etched on his face. "Bellerophon is the silent type, I find."

"Mr. Bertrand!" Daniel exclaimed, trying for a winning smile. "What a surprise, sir!"

"Yes, this estate's full of them." Erik stood slowly, silently enjoying the intimidation crossing Daniel's face as he realized the masked man's full height. "I hope you will not think me overly inquisitive, Mr. Bauer, but may I ask exactly what you are planning to do with my horse this evening?"

Even in the darkness, Erik could sense Daniel's face flushing. "Oh, well... a bit silly, really..."

"I have little doubt."

"Haha... Bella told me you were very astute, sir. I can see that she wasn't lying."

"If you would be so kind as to answer the question, Mr. Bauer."

Erik heard a loud swallow come from the other man. "Oh, right. Well, you see, sir, I have a business appointment about two miles from here, and it simply cannot be broken, you see... and since there's this storm looks as if it's going to be quite unforgiving, so I thought that perhaps I would... take the... ah... the, ah..."

"Liberty?"

"Yes! The liberty of... well, borrowing this fine animal here. I didn't know that you would be here."

"Yes, your bumbled, stuttering excuses for coherent sentences have made that rather

obvious." Erik folded his arms, enjoying the look of increasing terror Daniel was adopting. "And what _business appointment_ do you have in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm, which requires you to be in the middle of my stable?"

Daniel froze. A long silence fell; even the horses paused in their stalls.

"It's private," Daniel said at length, his voice surprisingly gruff. "Regarding my family."

Erik let another pause hang in the air. "Your family is meeting you in the midst of a rainstorm?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Daniel fidgeted, pulling at a loose thread on his shirt. "I, ah... well, frankly, sir, I... I am considering... I want to be closer to my wife and son, and I am considering perhaps... purchasing a..."

Erik let out a loud bark of laughter. "Mr. Bauer, am I to understand that you are going to attempt to come live here? Buy a cottage and have Isabel tend to a garden?" A crash of thunder broke overhead and Daniel jumped, banging his shoulder on the stall behind him.

"I don't see why it would seem funny, sir..."

"No, I do not suppose that you would." Erik sighed, suddenly weary. The stable was growing chilly from the storm and this idiot was beginning to bore him. "Your private affairs do not concern or interest me. Your wife, however, does. She is my employee, and, despite the fact that she is currently distracted by a _plethora_ of uninvited guests, she has managed to do the work she has been hired to do, and I do not appreciate your ill-conceived plan to remove her from her post and plant her in the fertile ground that is your idea of marital bliss." He paused. Daniel's breath had become shallow and labored; in the dim light, Erik could see him begin to shrink into himself at the scolding.

"Since Isabel has the tendency to blurt out whatever is foremost in her mind, and this particular notion has never been ejaculated, I presume that you have not discussed it with her." Daniel opened his mouth, looking indignant, and Erik raised a hand to silence him. "That, however, is not my concern. _My_ concern is that it is storming outside and you were prepared to take one of my horses out into it without bothering to request any sort of permission. That is correct, is it not?"

"Well, it... I don't really..."

Erik raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Daniel said meekly. "I suppose it is."

"Which is unacceptable," Erik concluded. "If you insist on making appointments in the dead of the night, you will have to get to them on foot, unless you had the good fortune to come across some other mode of transportation."

"But I _had_ to make it in the middle of the night," Daniel protested. "I _have_ spoken to Bella about it – er, briefly – and she didn't exactly warm to the idea, so if she knew that I was sneaking around behind her back, she'd be furious. I know you're not as familiar with her as I am, sir, but you must know that she can have a fiery temper when she wants."

"Mr. Bauer, get to your appointment, leave my animals alone and keep your marital woes to yourself."

The door slid closed behind Erik smoothly, and he smirked at the loud squeak Daniel emitted as he was shut into darkness.

* * *

It wasn't that the eggs and raw bacon before her were particularly intriguing, it was just that Isabel couldn't seem to take her eyes off of them. Her head ached dully from a sleepless night and her eyes felt dry and sore; she was sure they were red-rimmed and puffy, adding to the vague sense of despair she was feeling. She simply lacked the energy to begin her day; getting dressed that morning had been a challenge unlike any she had attempted recently.

The clock struck 7:00 and she started, snapping her head around to glance at it. "Dear Lord," she breathed, rubbing a temple gently. She had to get a hold of herself.

She eyed the eggs defiantly, grabbing one and breaking it over a bowl. The haze around her dissipated as she continued with her work steadily, humming a melody her mother had taught her as a child.

_O can't you see yon little turtle dove_

_Sitting under the mulberry tree?_

_See how that she doth mourn for her true love:_

_And I shall mourn for thee, my dear,_

_And I shall mourn for thee_

Heavy footsteps began thudding down the stairs as she was turning the bacon and she glanced up as Mr. Bertrand breezed through the kitchen, exiting the back door and heading towards the stables. Isabel took the pan off the stove and crossed the room, wiping her hands on her apron as she peered out the window. Mr. Bertrand disappeared into the stable, leaving the door open behind him. He walked back out it a moment later, dusting a sleeve off impatiently and walking quickly towards the kitchen door.

Isabel turned back to the stove as he entered.

"Mrs. Bauer."

Putting on her best quizzical expression, she turned her head to him, tilting it slightly in question. "Yes, Mr. Bertrand?"

"I need some things in town." He held up a hand to silence her as she released a weary sigh at the words. "I am planning on going myself, actually, but I would be much obliged if you would accompany me. I have something I wish to discuss with you."

Despite his mild tone and expression, Isabel felt her stomach turn.

The masked man rolled his eyes. "Do not look so worried, Mrs. Bauer. I feel quite certain that whatever I have to say will not surprise or particularly upset you." He glanced at the food she was preparing. "I would like to leave as soon as possible. Come to the library when you have finished with breakfast."

Isabel grunted in irritation as he left the kitchen silently, casting her an amused look before disappearing into the hall.

"'You take delight in vexing me,'" she muttered, turning back to the bacon.

* * *

_I know, I know, it's been a while. I won't even try to excuse myself, because I know it's pointless.  
Nawlin-sprinked Sherlock-lovin' to Chat for betaing while she's on freakin' vacation. She's far, far too good to me.  
Readers, if there are any left (I stopped deserving you a while ago), you're the kindest, bestest, prettiest people who ever were. I will arrange for John Cusack to stand outside your window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel as soon as I have the means.  
Last quote is Jane Austen and blah blah blah.  
_


	26. Twenty Five

**Chapter Twenty Five**

Isabel felt a trickle of sweat make its way down the back of her neck and she dabbed at it before it slid under the collar of her dress. Mr. Bertrand's pace was nearly impossible to keep up with, particularly on this sunny, sleepy day, and she knew her legs would be terrifically sore by the time this walk was over. Mr. Bertrand simply forged onward, striding silently down the dirt road with his usual grace, his arms held behind his back, his chin up. Isabel sped up her pace once more, shooting him a cold look from the corner of her eye. They had been walking for nearly twenty minutes and he hadn't said a word. Isabel felt her throat tighten at the idea of having a discussion with him – they never seemed to end well, and she was fairly certain she knew what the nature of this one would be.

Casting him another glance, she sighed and dragged her feet in the dirt, indulging in a moment of childish enjoyment by the annoyed grunt he made at the sound.

"Oh, how rude of me, Mr. Bertrand," she said loudly, keeping her eyes on the road before her. "There was something you wished to discuss?"

A smiled quirked the side of his mouth. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer, there is." He paused, looking at her openly, that glimmer of a smile on his face. Then he turned and continued on the road.

Isabel stared after him with her mouth agape, dazzled, once again, by just _how_ irritating her employer could be.

"It is about your husband," he said over his shoulder, and Isabel picked up her skirts, hurrying to his side.

"I imagined as much, Mr. Bertrand."

"Clever girl." He cleared his throat, keeping his gaze steady. "I am afraid that speaking delicately is not my forte. Nadir is infinitely more accustom to it than I, but I shall try my best." He dropped his head , his chin touching his chest as he thought. "Your husband, I feel, has overstayed his uninvited welcome." His smile grew. "How was that?"

"Very subtle, Mr. Bertrand." Isabel tried to keep her voice bright, despite the heavy weight that was settling in her chest. She had been dreading this very discussion ever since the moment that Daniel had stepped into the house. Silence hung in the air heavily as she considered her words. His blatant honesty was somewhat inspiring; she decided to follow the same route.

"I have spoken to him about it briefly, and have made very clear my feelings that he should not... linger unnecessarily. He seemed less than enthusiastic at the prospect of leaving."

She was surprised to hear a bark of laughter from her employer. "Yes, I would imagine so," he said airily, regaining his composure. "I take it, then, that he refused to simply leave?"

"He... he didn't exactly say." She sighed. "My husband has a tendency to make relatively simple problems complicated beyond all reason. I apologize on his behalf."

"I have little doubt that he is perfectly able to apologize for himself, even if he lacks the will to do so. Anyway, it is not his regrets, no matter how sincere, that I want. I wish that I could say I feel a certain shame in stating the facts, but I simply do not. My home has been taken over by your family, Mrs. Bauer, and it is a situation I wish to end." He shrugged. "If you have spoken to him, and he has still not given you an answer, perhaps I could discuss the matter with him? I have been called _persuasive_ in my time."

The smile he wore was beginning to unnerve Isabel. She slowed her pace until she was a foot behind him, keeping the distance as she resumed walking. "I do not think that would help, Mr. Bertrand. And I do not want him to feel attacked." She paused. "By you, anyway."

He shook his head. "I have the utmost faith that he would survive a verbal attack; in fact, it may be precisely what is needed to convince him to leave." His tone was clipped; Isabel remained silent, certain that more arguments would only anger him. "If you have spoken to him, and he has not taken the pains to remove himself from the situation, and you do not wish for _me_ to attempt to change his mind, what are our options? Shall I adopt him?"

Isabel's pace slowed again as a thought formed in her head. The very idea made her stomach sour, yet it held a certain perverted sense in it.

Mr. Bertrand had stopped several yards ahead, looking back at her with his eyebrows raised quizzically.

"I think I know what to do," Isabel said quietly, moving along the road again. She passed Mr. Bertrand, still gazing at her curiously.

She was grateful for the silence that followed.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed rather pleasantly. Mr. Bertrand ran his errands, treating the clerks with his usual contemptuousness, and, to Isabel's relief, when they passed Mr. Sanders' shop, the man was nowhere near the window and they walked by unnoticed. A comfortable silence had fallen between them as they wandered away from the village, Isabel taking in her surroundings, Mr. Bertrand keeping his eyes focusing directly ahead of him. 

"A lovely day, is it not?" she said casually, turning her gaze towards the clear blue sky.

"I have little interest in defining the weather. I suppose you could call it 'lovely,' if you wish."

Isabel felt a smile spread on her lips. "Do you take no pleasure in a sunny day, Mr. Bertrand?"

He stopped in his tracks, the twitching of his hand betraying the tension of his muscles. "Pleasure, Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel opted not to respond, feeling the heat rise in her face. She very suddenly felt that she would have given the world if only she could take back what she had said.

"I am not of the notion that life is about _pleasure_, Mrs. Bauer. I presume that you agree."

"Why would you presume that?" She hoped her tone was as gentle as she had intended.

He turned to face her, his blue-green eyes narrowed. "You are not a foolish woman, Mrs. Bauer, and only a foolish woman would live her life with such a conviction." He returned his gaze to the path ahead of him. "Of course, I speak only from my experience with you. It is entirely possible that you are a ridiculous, flighty creature without an intelligent thought in her head. If so," his amusement was written on his tone, "you are singularly talented in the art of deception. Which, in and of itself, requires a great deal in intellect." Even from the limited view she had of his face, she could see his smile. "What an enigma you are, Mrs. Bauer."

Unsure if she was being complimented or insulted, she decided to steer the conversation away from his bizarre reasoning. She cleared her throat delicately.

"Then what _is_ it about?"

He stopped in the road beneath a tree, his face cast in a streak of shadow, and looked back at her. "I beg your pardon?"

Isabel walked up to him coolly, folding her hands in front of her and tilting her head to one side. "If life does not exist for purely for pleasure, a philosophy I happen to agree with, what _is_ its purpose?"

Mr. Bertrand smiled sardonically. "A conversation better suited for Plato than myself."

"Surely you have a theory, at least."

His face suddenly turned expressionless and he walked on, leaving Isabel staring after him in some wonder. He was an intelligent man, of that she was certain. She presumed he came from privilege, and he had obviously traveled extensively.

Yet for all the brilliant ideas undoubtedly floating around in his head, he certainly wasn't one for sharing them.

She walked behind him, ignoring a crick in her neck from carrying a satchel full of glass vials and bits of metal and rope – he had murmured something about a feeding bin when she had inquired as to his purchases – and took advantage of the silence between them to meditate on Daniel.

A strange man: Still a sort of child trapped in the body of an adult, a master of empty threats, a bit of a coward, but good-hearted. Her animosity towards him had all but died, but she still felt a trickle of apprehension when he became too close, and approached her with the familiarity most husbands and wives shared.

And then there was the matter of Thomas.

Isabel was not normally a jealous woman. Envy was one of the sins she was only too happy to avoid, preferring to let things happen as they may, acknowledging that, for the most part, circumstances were out of her hands. But in the past weeks, her husband's attentions towards Thomas had consumed her son, distracting him at all times, even the rare moments when Isabel and Thomas were alone. He talked about his father constantly, regaling tales of their day together, stories Daniel had shared about his life in Liverpool, how lovely it was there, and his pleading voice, Mama, can we go someday?

She had managed to avoid a direct answer, mostly thanks to Daniel bursting into the room and collecting Thomas for a surprise fishing trip. Once again, Isabel watched her husband sweep her son away from her.

Looking up, she stopped short when she realized she had nearly bumped into Mr. Bertrand. His house stood several yards in front of him, looking gloomy under the shade of the trees surrounding it.

"Oh!" she said aloud, hopping back a step. "Excuse me; my mind was wandering."

He remained still, his eyes fixed on the house before him. His expression was somewhat downhearted and thoughtful, his mouth set in a frown. "What do you consider this house, Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel glanced between him and the building. "Pardon? _Consider?_"

"Yes," he said quietly, a finger pressed to his lips musingly. "Is it a home, or simply a structure? Does it bring warmth and comfort, or does it just protect against the elements?"

Isabel briefly considered choosing her words carefully, but this day was beginning to wear on her and her employer's vagueness and strange questions were becoming irritating.

"Both, I think."

He glanced at her. "Both?"

She released a sigh of impatience. "It is a building I care for and clean, but it is your home and therefore, it surely holds more sentimental value for you than it does for myself."

Mr. Bertrand's smile was enigmatical. "I have no sentiment invested in it."

"Well then, I suppose it would be just a structure designed to keep us dry." She passed him and started up the stairs, feeling a slight twinge of regret at her clipped tone. Hitching her satchel further onto her shoulder, she glanced back at him, surprised that he was in the same pose, obviously preoccupied, unmoving and silent.

She wished, not for the first time, that she could read minds, although she had a suspicion that his thoughts, no matter how brilliant, would be far too jumbled and incoherent to understand.

"Isabel," he said suddenly, his voice ringing out clearly in the still air. She felt, rather than saw, his eyes move to her, and her entire body froze of its own accord. It was a foolish thought, to be sure... but although she had heard him say her name before, she had never heard it pronounced with such a delicate musicality. She found herself standing a bit straighter, her shoulders held back slightly, and she smiled down at him with the first genuine warmth she had ever felt towards the man.

"Yes, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Would you miss this house?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

"If you were to have to leave it abruptly... if you would have to relocate, would you miss it?"

An unrelenting sense of dread was beginning to grip at her and she breathed deeply, trying to loosen the knot in her chest. "I suppose I would, yes."

"But it is only a structure, as you said. What if you could be guaranteed a home of the same scale and style, but in a different location?"

"What location?" Her tone had taken on an edge now, she knew, but she felt quite certain that he was either threatening her or firing her, and now was not the time for delicacy.

"Oh, wherever you like." He lowered his finger from his lips, staring hard the house behind her. "Somewhere near the sea, perhaps."

_Oh God._

Isabel opened her mouth to answer, but knew that the words wouldn't come. She shut it again, hoping her face wasn't betraying the terror she felt.

_He's sending you to Liverpool._

"I _have_ had pleasure, Mrs. Bauer," he continued in a neutral tone, "but not here."

"You wish... you..." trying to swallow against the painful dryness in her throat, she winced. "Wish me to go?"

Mr. Bertrand's eyebrows rose in surprise. "To go? Of course not. Wherever do you get these ideas?"

She didn't dare to release her breath. "The seaside... Liverpool, where my husband resides... I assumed—"

"Incorrectly," he said smoothly. Striding up the stairs and past her, he spoke over his shoulder. "Talk to your husband. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I want him gone." He disappeared into the darkness of the house, leaving Isabel to stare at the spot where he had stood, her soft sighs of relief too quiet to be heard.

* * *

"But Mama, I don't want Papa to go." 

Isabel had been battling with her son for an hour now, trying everything she could think of to convince him to comply with her plan – cajoling, begging, even bribery – but he simply would not budge. In the course of the conversation, his tone had changed from bewildered to angry to desperate, now settling into a sadness that caused Isabel's eyes to well up.

"Darling, we have been over this. I know you don't want him to go, but he has to. The people in Liverpool need him, only he doesn't want to leave us, Tom, so we need to tell him that he has to."

The look on her boy's face was too much to bear; she turned away and looked out the window at the orchard. The cherries were gone now, leaving the trees looking strangely bare, naked against the clear blue of the sky.

The simple beauty of the contrasting colors of nature frustrated her.

"But why does he have to leave?" Thomas asked for the fourth time. His sadness was dissipating; he now sounded vaguely annoyed.

"Because the other coal porters in Liverpool need him. How else can they get the coal off of the boats?"

"There are other workers," Thomas muttered, pulling at a loose thread on his mother's quilt.

"None as good as Papa," she replied wearily. God, she hated this. It was, it _had_ to be, one of the lowest things she had ever done. Even if it worked – no, _especially_ if it worked – she would carry the guilt of it around with her until her dying day.

She knew that Daniel would not move an inch if she asked him, but he would walk on water if Thomas wanted. So here she was: sad, desperate and insisting her child do something he absolutely did not want to do.

"But he said that he wants us to live together again," Thomas protested, his face now set in a pout.

Isabel leaned forward, placing her hands over his. "Thomas," she said in her most soothing voice, "you know that Mama wouldn't ask you do this unless it was important."

For the first time since the discussion had begun, the stubborn refusal on Thomas's face cracked. He wasn't giving in easily, but she saw his will bending.

"Papa would be happy that you convinced him to go, darling. Maybe not right now, but soon. He knows that he should, he just doesn't want to."

The sad look on Thomas's face was very nearly breaking her heart.

"Why doesn't he want to?"

Isabel brought her hands to her face and rubbed her temples. "Because he doesn't want to leave you, my darling."

"Does he want to leave you, Mama?"

Isabel covered her eyes with her hands and lowered her head towards to the floor. "I don't know, Thomas."

A silence followed, Thomas thinking, Isabel surrendering to the feeling of disgust that was beginning to consume her.

"Mama?" Her son's sweet voice broke through the heavy quiet.

"Yes, darling?"

"If I ask Papa to go, can we go stay with him when you don't work for Mr. Bertrand anymore?"

Isabel looked up from her hands to the little boy in front of her. "Would you do it then?"

He nodded.

Bringing her head back into her hands, she nodded. "Then yes, we could go stay with him."

She knew perfectly well that Thomas was requesting more than she would ever be able to give, but he was holding what she wanted, and she would have promised him the moon itself if he would give it to her.

He nodded grimly, rose to go and walked towards the door, his small, dark head drooping with sadness. Stopping by Isabel to kiss her cheek, he scampered out of the room and down the stairs, his footfalls fading away.

Isabel crawled up onto her bed, curling tightly into a ball and burying her face in her thin pillow. She knew, of course, that even Daniel, dim as he could be when the mood struck him, would see straight through this ploy. Her only real hope was that he would become so disgusted with her that he wouldn't be able to stand the very sight of her, consequently leaving and therefore complying with her wishes, even if for a different reason.

Remembering the look on Thomas's face as he left, she knew that she would never forgive herself.

* * *

The soft comfort of the bed proved to be too strong a pull to ignore, and Isabel drifted into an uneasy sleep. She was startled awake by a loud knock at the door, and she stilled herself for a moment, wondering if she had dreamt it. 

Another knock followed and she scrambled out of bed, horrified to realize that she had dozed off.

Straightening her hair as quickly as she could, she tried to remember why there was an unbearable weight in her chest.

"Isabel, I really must speak with you."

She rushed across the room and opened the door to a very frazzled-looking Nadir Khan.

Stepping aside, she gestured for him to come in, closing the door slightly behind him.

"Yes?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. _Damn damn damn._ Why did she have to have _fallen asleep?_

"It is about Thomas."

Blind panic streaked through her at the words, then she remembered why her mind was so troubled. The alarm faded, but the heaviness on her heart increased its weight.

"What about him?" she asked, keeping her face as blank as possible.

"It seems that he has told Daniel that it would be in his best interests to return to Liverpool. It appears that you said something to encourage Thomas to... express this, ah, idea to his father?" Nadir raised an eyebrow, waiting for affirmation.

Isabel nodded.

Nadir stared at her as if waiting for an explanation. When she remained silent, he released a loud sigh, his eyes darting around the room as he composed himself. "I am afraid that Daniel has become rather..." he examined the ceiling while choosing his words.

A loud series of obscenities came from downstairs, drifting through the door. Isabel turned towards the sounds in surprise, agitation pricking at her nerves.

"_Incensed_ would not be an inappropriate word," Nadir finished.

Without a word, Isabel turned and left the room, nearly tripping down the stairs in her rush. Her skirts twisted around her legs threateningly, causing her to mutter an oath under her breath.

She skidded to a stop on the bottom floor, hearing a raised voice coming from the library. Taking a shaky breath and preparing herself for Daniel's version of fury, usually a short rant spoken in a somewhat loud voice before he simply gave up, unable to articulate his rage, and dropping into a chair, crossing his arms and stewing silently for hours.

She approached the library cautiously, taking care that her footfalls were light and as quiet as possible. Peeking into the room, she saw three forms: Thomas, standing near the window with a look of pure terror on his face; Daniel, pacing the floor with his arms flailing and incoherent words issuing from his mouth; and Mr. Bertrand, seated beside the unlit fireplace, his fingers steepled as he looked on thoughtfully, apparently undisturbed by Daniel's ravings.

If her son hadn't been in the room, she would have simply left and waited for news of the outcome of this interesting scene. One more glance at the terrified expression Thomas held, however, heightened her resolve and she stepped into the room calmly, beckoning Thomas to her with a finger before folding her hands politely in front of her.

"Daniel, what precisely are you doing?" She was pleasantly surprised by the smooth tone her voice was holding.

Daniel's head snapped towards her and his eyes widened. His face was flushed, her nostrils flared; she was half-prepared to see foam erupt from his mouth.

Apparently, her plan to revolt him was working. Strange, then, how the guilt was still threatening to drown her.

"You!" her husband exclaimed, pointing a shaking finger at her.

"Me?" she replied, grasping Thomas's shoulders and steering him out of the room. "Mr. Khan is upstairs," she told him in an undertone. "Go have a visit, will you?"

Turning back to Daniel, she held his gaze unwaveringly, only too aware that Mr. Bertrand hadn't moved since she arrived and that Daniel's anger was far from dissipating.

"You _used_ our _son._ Youforced him to try to drive me off!" His expression turned from outrage to an incomparable sorrow. "You used him, Isabel, and used him ill."

She knew he could read the self-loathing that was undoubtedly sketched on her face, and she felt, in the midst of the storm of emotions in her, a stab of annoyance.

"Consider it a testament to how desperately you need to leave, Daniel."

A fresh bout of anger colored Daniel's face. "You have no remorse, then, for what you have done? Not an ounce of regret for hurting our child?"

"He will recover, I feel—"

"Not just the lies, Isabel!" he snapped.

Isabel took an unwitting step back. His disgust was indeed palpable now, and, despite her mental preparations, it caught her off-guard.

"You have uprooted him from his father, then the only home he has ever known, come to work for an eccentric millionaire—" (Mr. Bertrand's lips curled up almost imperceptibly) "—and dragged Thomas along with you! This is madness, Isabel! Surely you must see this!"

Darting a glance at Mr. Bertrand, still looking contemplative in his chair, she glared at her husband. "I think it would be more prudent to take this matter outside, Daniel."

"Prudent!" Her husband's voice rang out like a banshee's shriek. "There isn't one drop of prudence in this house, Isabel! You are living with two strange men, miles from town, with a child, no less! Being paid a handsome sum, indeed!"

"What exactly are you implying?" Isabel asked with indignation.

"That this is hardly a typical, professional setting!"

"Professional?" Her eyes grew wide. "_Professional?_ Oh, you're a _fine_ one to talk about _professional_, Daniel Bauer. If you knew how to be more _professional,_ how to act accordingly, how to _know your place_, we would not be anywhere _near _this predicament!"

Daniel's skin turned an unseemly red. "I will not relive that again, Isabel. I have no desire—"

"As entertaining as this screaming match is," came the cool voice of Mr. Bertrand, "I really must insist that you two delay making any ire-induced statements which may alter your relationship forever."

"What for?" Daniel sneered. Evidently, his rage had replaced his fear of his wife's employer, and instead of cowering, as usual, he looked at the masked man with nothing but contempt.

"Mrs. Bauer and her son will shortly be accompanying the _eccentric millionaire_ and very possibly his Persian friend to France for an extended stay."

Isabel and Daniel started at him blankly, until he sighed wearily and stood. "I have not yet had a chance to discuss this with you, Mrs. Bauer, but I hope to in the near future." Walking towards the door, he called over his shoulder, "The next time you are free from your duties would be best. A good day to you, Mr. Bauer."

The silence in the room continued until Mr. Bertrand's footsteps had faded.

"I really thought that you'd bend on this," Daniel said quietly.

"On what?" she asked, her eyes still lingering where her employer had sat.

"Me."

Isabel raised her eyes. Daniel's expression was now one of sheer sadness, his eyes drooping, his mouth set in a frown. "I've been looking at nearby properties, you know."

"You've been _what?_"

He nodded slowly, resting against the wall behind him. "Mr. Bertrand, he caught me going out to borrow one of his horses to get to an appointment. Fairly upset over it, too." He scratched his head. "It's not easy, I'll have you know, arranging meetings with land owners and bankers, all in the dead of night."

"Why at night?"

He shrugged. "Didn't seem like the sort of thing you should know about. Thought you might throw some sort of fit." He let a small smile touch his lips. "Not really wrong, was I?"

Isabel shut her eyes tightly, releasing a long, slow breath. "Daniel, why, why on _earth_ would you think that it might be—"

"I reckoned all these years might have helped us with our troubles somewhat. Guess not." He shook his head. "I figured maybe we would been past all the bad. Truth is, Bella, when I got your telegram about Thomas being so ill, I'd been looking for an excuse to come out here for a while. Wanted to see if we could bring some spark back, maybe not be able to live without each other again, like the old days." His smile was remorseful.

Sinking to the floor with her head pressed firmly into her hands, Isabel ignored the warm wetness sliding down her face. "Daniel..."

"I know, Bella, I know." He sighed, the long, thin noise invading her ears. "Still. Can't blame a man for trying." He crossed the room slowly. "You must be desperate, truly desperate, to sink to such depths. Really, Bella, telling Thomas that it would be best for me to leave."

"It would be," she snapped.

A brief pause. "For him or for you?"

Her heart constricted. "Oh God, Daniel, just go. _Please._"

"Oh, well, since you asked so nice," he replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I'll just be on my way, back to Liverpool... the docks... back to everything the way it should be. Me, my wife, my son, all miles apart. Countries, soon. What's this about France?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Daniel shot her a skeptical look. "Ah, Bella, come now."

"I don't know!" She thudded her head against the door, desperate to feel anything other than this smothering guilt and anger. "I don't know. I'll write as soon as I do."

She waited for a reply, but Daniel simply nodded, his expression curiously neutral, stepped around her and exited the room, leaving her alone.

_The ends justify the means._

Leaning against the door to close it, Isabel stared at the bookshelf across the room from her, willing the tears she felt in her eyes to overflow.

Try as she might, they simply would not come.

* * *

_Less than two months! I rock, yes indeedy.  
A quick shout-out to Random-Battlecry, the person I want to be when I grow up, 'cause I owe her and stuff. I forget things easily. kicks dirt  
Chat, Ms. Noir, Mrs. Brett, whatever you want to call her, she's my beta and I love her all crazy-like. Her suggestions and corrections are always, always helpful and they aid in making Sanc not totally suck.  
Your reviews are, as always, happy-tear-inducing and now that F to the F to the N has this nifty "Reply" option on them, I can start responding to individual reviews, provided that you left one while logged in. Huzzah for technology!  
_


	27. Twenty Six

**Chapter Twenty Six**

"You cannot _possibly_ be serious, Erik." Nadir's expression was a curious combination of amusement and trepidation, his jade eyes narrowed at the masked man sitting opposite him.

"I would hardly jest about it, daroga," Erik replied carelessly, staring into the dark fireplace. "I find myself unable to focus on any one thing here. I have been settled in this ridiculous country for near eight months now, and what have I to show for it?" He glanced at the Persian, who shook his head in reply.

"Precisely. I have been here before, if you will recall. I hated it then, and I now remember why."

"That was years ago," Nadir argued. "Just after Persia. You were hardly in a sound state of mind."

Erik shot a lethal glare at the man opposite him.

Nadir smiled wryly. "France has never treated you well. I cannot imagine why you would wish to return to it."

"I just told you," Erik snapped. "It is, despite its many defects and ill memories, my home." He settled further into his seat. "Since it does not hold such sentimentality with you, I would not be offended if you chose to remain here." His smile was sardonic. "Unless I am much mistaken, you are finding a certain serenity here. I would hate to tear you from it."

Nadir's face betrayed no emotion, but his shoulders had visibly tightened. "Nonsense. If you wish for me to stay here, I will stay here."

Erik snorted derisively. "You really are a terrible liar, daroga. I will credit you with enough cleverness and stealth to push your way into France and keep a close eye on me without my knowledge." He paused. "For a while."

Nadir grimaced. "You are digressing. How can you return to France? There is still a number of Parisians only too happy to hunt you down like a wild boar. I doubt you would go unnoticed."

"Avoiding angry Parisians is simple, Nadir. Just avoid Paris."

"I was not aware there was anywhere else in France worth seeing."

Erik smiled as he looked into the hearth, feeling a ridiculous warmth of contentment flush his skin at the very thought of his home. "So much more. The seaside, the country. I was considering perhaps something outside of Angers. There is bound to be a suitable plot of land somewhere in the area."

"Land?" Nadir's tone darkened over the word. "Surely you are not planning on building yourself a house?"

"It is an idea I have entertained," Erik replied lightly, pulling his gaze from the hearth and settling them, with a touch of amusement, on the Persian. "You seem disquieted, Nadir."

"Certainly, it is preferable to watching you march into Paris and throw yourself into the clutches of a merciless mob. And yet..." he raised an eyebrow.

"And yet building a house is hardly discreet, I know. It is a quandary I have been much occupied with."

Nadir sunk deeper into his chair. "Perhaps you wish to be caught."

Erik stood abruptly. "If that were the case, I would have sat beneath the opera, waiting for the raiders to discover me. I did precisely what you wished for me to do – no, do not object – and I fled. I scraped some vital possessions together and crossed the Channel with my tail between my legs, properly anxious at the prospect of being shackled and killed in a public spectacle by a freshly-educated hangman who would more than likely tie me up incorrectly and cause me a great deal of discomfort before death."

"You could have killed yourself."

"I considered it."

"We are veering off-topic," Nadir announced, his discomfort at the subject clearly written on his face. "I will simply state that, in my opinion, building a house is an unnecessary expense, not to mention, of course, the attention it would receive. The ice we are treading on is thin enough as it is; Angers may be a ways from Paris, but if word of your return to France gets to the Parisian authorities, your life is not worth the trouble it would take to protect it."

"Another small town, then," Erik said, briefly eyeing the dirty window before him. "I, myself, shall stay rather reclusive. My music has been suffering greatly; I need a retreat, some time far from humanity, to nurture it."

"You make it sound like an ailing child, Erik. Speaking of which, what precisely are you planning on doing with Isabel and Thomas?"

Erik turned to face Nadir, his expression curious. "What do I plan on _doing_ with them?"

"Are they to join you on this journey?"

"Certainly." His eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I had hoped that the child was going to follow the father back to Liverpool, but that seems to be outside the realm of possibility."

"I should think so, being as Daniel left two days ago."

"Perhaps the boy will change his mind and follow his father."

"You needn't sound so hopeful, Erik."

"Oh, daroga, but I am." He cracked a small smile. "I am very faithful to my servants, as you are well aware. You are the same way, I know. I presume that you saw to it that Darius was well taken care of before you came to England to spy on me?"

Ignoring the jibe, Nadir nodded.

"Yes... she has shown loyalty, and I am not foolish enough to think that it is a quality that many women possess. She can be very useful, our Mrs. Bauer, and I do not intend to let her go just yet."

"Perhaps you should discuss this with her before suddenly stripping the house of possessions and dragging her and her son to France."

Erik released a vague snort. "I tire of these infernal heart-to-hearts. You should be the one to speak to her, Nadir. She and that boy of hers have a certain taste for you, one that I do not hope to ever achieve, and she can feel more freedom to rage her dissatisfaction at the situation to you than she could to me."

"My, how considerate you are, Erik! Perhaps you would care to pick some wildflowers for me to present her with, as well?"

Erik's sudden burst of laughter surprised him as much as the Persian. "Perhaps not. I shall save that idea for when I need to coerce her into moving to Egypt."

"Egypt! My heart cannot take such a jest, Erik." Nadir shifted, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

A corner of Erik's mouth twitched. "So you will talk to her, then?"

"I think not," Nadir replied casually. "Despite your very detailed explanation as to why you are insisting on returning to a country which would like nothing more than to hang you, I feel that you could answer any questions she may have far better than I."

"She _is_ a damnably inquisitive woman, isn't she?"

Nadir only smiled.

* * *

Darning socks was, in Isabel's opinion, the worst chore to ever grace God's green earth. The needle, which she had been so ridiculously careful with, had somehow slipped from the darning egg mid-stitch and was now lodged quite firmly into her index finger. 

The sting had made her eyes tear up, but more than anything, she felt annoyed.

Yanking the needle out of her skin and resisting the urge to scream, she stabbed it into the woebegone sock and set it aside, folding her hands and leaning back in her chair.

She ran her hands across the smooth material of her dress and let her eyes wander over the room until they settled, unfocused and absently, on the window over her bed. It was cracked open, the stark heat seeping into the room. She lacked the energy to get up and shut it, despite the sweat that was beginning to form on the nape of her neck. Raising a heavy arm, she patted at her sticky skin and groaned. It was just too miserable in this house: too hot, too quiet. The tension between her and Thomas had grown to an almost unbearable level, with him avoiding her unless absolutely necessary. She hadn't heard more than half a dozen words out of him in the past two days.

His sweet, familiar voice suddenly drifted through the open window, and she found all her aching bones forgotten. She stood and rushed to the window, looking down to see his small form by the stable, speaking patiently with Nadir.

She leaned against the window frame and tried to remain inconspicuous, peeking through the lace curtain and trying to make out what the pair were discussing. All she could hear was the sound of her son's voice, his words soft and indistinguishable, and the murmurs of Nadir's responses.

Ducking away from the window, she slunk back to her chair and slid into it, eyeing the discarded sock with disgust.

"Mrs. Bauer."

Releasing something akin to a shriek, Isabel shot from her chair and spun around so violently, she nearly fell over.

"Mr. Bertrand, _please_ don't scare me like that!"

Mr. Bertrand gave a slight inclination of his head – his version of an apology, she had learned. "You will excuse me, I am sure, Mrs. Bauer, when I tell you that I am not knowledgeable enough in the inner workings of your psyche to know what will or will not frighten you."

"I find that very hard to believe," she replied lightly. Shaking out her skirts absently, she raised her head and clasped her hands behind her back. "What may I do for you, Mr. Bertrand?"

Her observed her silently for a moment, his sharp eyes darting over her form. "France," he said at length. "I feel that... well, Nadir feels that I should perhaps discuss it with you before making any _rash decisions._"

"Of course." Another conversation that she had been dreading. Indicating the seat across from her, she sat gracefully on the chair beside her night table. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Mr. Bertrand fell into the seat with little ceremony, his arms falling limply on the sides of the chair and his gaze resting on the wall over Isabel's shoulder.

"France," he said simply.

"France?" she repeated, doing her best to look politely puzzled.

"Yes. I apologize for not informing you of my plans earlier, but they have been more vague than firm and I had no wish to drag you into a bog of uncertainty."

"Thank you," Isabel muttered.

"Are you familiar with France at all, Mrs. Bauer?"

"Slightly. Elise, the lady's maid to Mrs. Northing, was from Orléans. She used to tell me stories from her childhood there, although they were more about her bizarre parents than her homeland."

Mr. Bertrand raised an eyebrow.

"She was one of thirteen children," she sighed.

Horror flickered over Mr. Bertrand's face. "Of course. Well, I am planning on traveling there in a few days' time to seek out some sort of suitable situation. Once that is arranged, I will send for you. Assuming, of course, that you want to come."

Isabel crossed her legs uncomfortably. "Surely there are servants in France, Mr. Bertrand. You could speak in your own language and not have to bother with translating—"

"Are you or are you not coming, Mrs. Bauer?"

Isabel propped her chin onto her palm, dropping her professional demeanor and scrutinizing the man before her. "Do you really think I should, Mr. Bertrand? Pack up myself and my son and follow you to a foreign country, speaking a foreign tongue and behaving in their... well, French ways." She cracked a smile. "Then there's Daniel, of course. There's always Daniel."

"The choice lies entirely with you, Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand said, his smooth tone in humorous contrast with his relaxed pose. "If I did not want you to accompany Nadir and myself, I would not have requested that you do so. However, if you do not feel inclined, simply say as much so that I may carry out my plans as quickly as possible."

Isabel rubbed her temple absently, every logical thought in her head nudging her away from the situation. Thomas was sure to put up a good fight at the idea. Moving again so soon was a horror. She was loathe to leave Samantha.

She dropped her hands to her lap and gave Mr. Bertrand her full attention. "Mr. Khan is to accompany you, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Like a lost puppy," he grunted.

"He will be returning to Paris, then?" Poor Samantha.

"I doubt it. You see, Mrs. Bauer, Mr. Khan's concern for my well-being rivals even yours. He has taken a rather embarrassing interest in it for years. More than likely, he will refuse to leave me be until he is absolutely positive that I am... well, to be concise, I do not think that he will be leaving us anytime soon."

"I see." Isabel ran a hand over her face. "May I give you an answer this evening, Mr. Bertrand? I need to speak to my son."

Mr. Bertrand gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, Mrs. Bauer, you may give me an answer this evening." He rose from his chair, striding across the room and sweeping out the door.

Isabel didn't bother trying to stand: she knew she wouldn't get very far if she managed to walk. For now, she contented herself with the darkness that closed eyes provided and the soothing sound of Thomas's voice coming through the open window.

* * *

"Paris, then? Didn't you say that's where he's from?" Samantha bent over a barrel of lentils, sniffed delicately, then scrunched her nose and waved away the merchant's offer. 

"Yes, that's right," Isabel replied, glancing around the road. Every passerby smiled politely at the two women, the men tipping their hats and the children giggling madly before skipping off. Isabel scowled at the endless congeniality, unreasonably irritated by every person in the country whose life made any amount of sense. She cleared her throat and turned back to Samantha. "But I spoke to Nadir – briefly – and he said that Mr. Bertrand has no plans to return to Paris. He seems keen on some little village outside of Angers."

"Angers?"

"In the Loire Valley."

"The what?" Samantha held a bouquet of herbs aloft, pausing in her examination to look at Isabel with an utterly lost expression.

"The Loire Valley."

"Which is?"

Isabel tossed a bundle of green beans back onto its tray angrily. "A valley!"

"Well you needn't be snappish, Isabel," Samantha replied sternly. "I'm not the one dragging you off to a valley in France. Mr. Hewick, I will _tell_ you if I am interested in something!"

The vendor's brow rose in surprise and he backed away slowly, eyeing Samantha suspiciously.

"Do you _want_ to go?" Samantha asked, glancing at Isabel and pointedly ignoring the pouting merchant behind her.

"Who am I to refuse a transfer to the French countryside?" Isabel folded her arms across her stomach.

"Oh, Isabel," Samantha sighed. "It _does_ sound glorious. Despite its rather unfortunate location in a valley." She wrinkled her nose.

"It's only for a while," Isabel said, wandering away from the merchant's stand slowly. "Mr. Bertrand is temporary."

"Is that so?" Samantha shot the annoyed vendor a venomous look and caught up to her friend. "Does he vanish into a puff of dust when exposed to sunlight?"

"It wouldn't surprise me." Isabel shook her head. "No, I mean that I do not plan on staying with him for an extended period of time. Certainly not permanently."

"Well, then. It would be more accurate to say that _you_ are temporary." Samantha smiled. "And what are your plans after excusing yourself from his service?"

Isabel shrugged. "My salary is ridiculously generous. My expenses are minimal; in less than a year, I will have enough to make both Thomas and myself quite comfortable and I can take a while for myself – and for him – without work. After that, who knows?"

"Does Mr. Bertrand know that?"

"I have never discussed it with him, no." She snorted. "We keep our secrets from each other, Mr. Bertrand and I."

"So it seems," Samantha mused. "Has he ever been married?"

"Married?" The idea startled Isabel. "I find that very unlikely."

"Perhaps you could ask Nadir."

"The man is so silent on the subject of Mr. Bertrand's past, I doubt that any questioning would prove fruitful."

Samantha made a noncommittal sound. "I suppose he will be accompanying you." Her voice sounded sad.

"Nadir? Yes, that is what I have been told." Isabel glanced at her companion surreptitiously. "The departure date is still unknown, Samantha. I am sure that there is plenty of time for you to come by for some tea. Thomas would be terribly sad to go without saying goodbye to you, as would Nadir."

Samantha's complexion turned a rather becoming shade of pink. "And Mr. Bertrand, of course," she said lightly. "It would be a crime to be parted from him without a tearful farewell."

Isabel laughed.

* * *

"So soon?" Isabel felt her stomach drop. 

"I see no sense in delaying. My train departs at eleven this evening." Mr. Bertrand glanced at Isabel with the bored expression she had been deprived of lately. She brightened.

"Eleven?"

"Is that soon enough for you?" His tone dripped irritation.

"It is, Mr. Bertrand." She gave a brief curtsey, enjoying the annoyed way he scrutinized her. "And will Mr. Khan be accompanying you?"

"Yes, I believe that he will. I trust that you will be perfectly sound here by yourself for a few weeks?"

"Yes, of course." Isabel smiled. "When do you suppose you will be sending for us?"

"I do not have the gift of telepathy, Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand snapped. "It is very likely that I will find a home small enough to maintain without any hired help."

"Oh, Mr. Bertrand," she said airily, neatly folding her hands in front of her, "I find that very unlikely. Particularly if Mr. Khan will be... sharing quarters with you for some time."

Mr. Bertrand turned towards the door, heaving a theatrical sigh. "Honestly, Mrs. Bauer, the things you insinuate." He ignored Isabel's gaping mouth. "I will write when I find something suitable. In the meantime, keep this house in order. I would suggest you start saying your goodbyes to the... locals, or whoever you care to bid farewell to."

"Certainly. Mr. Bertrand?"

He looked at her, his eyebrow raised in question.

"Do you think that we will—well, that _you_ will—ever be returning to England?"

He gave a graceful shrug. "That, Mrs. Bauer, depends on France."

* * *

_Hello duckies! Anyone out there? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Well, anyway, we're heading to France shortly, so that'll be fun. OR WILL IT? (That's called a teaser! Actually, I don't think that's a teaser. I don't know what that's called.)  
Oxoxoxo to Chat for her betaness and to you all for emailing/reviewing/leaving threatening messages on my voicemail.  
I am going to do my very best to get one more chapter out before NaNoWriMo madness begins in November (where did the year go?). Pray for me.  
I'd also like to apologize in advance for any emo turns the story may take in the future. I've been listening to The Postal Service a lot.  
_


End file.
